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ALL    SEASONS 


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BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON  &  COMPAKY, 

PUBLISHERS. 


c  I  ^S3 ^ 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


In  issuing  a  Gift  Book  of  the  character  of  the 
present  volume,  something  in  the  form  of  a  preface  is 
expected  ;  but,  as  the  editor  of  the  Casket  is  of  an 
opinion  that  prefatory  remarks,  to  a  work  of  this  kind, 
are  entirely  useless,  she  will  venture  the  present  volume 
on  the  sea  of  public  opinion,  without  the  usual  intro- 
duction, trusting  it  will  be  found  to  compare  favorably 
with  its  many  competitors,  both  in  regard  to  its  en- 
gravings and  typography,  and  that  the  same  will  be 
found  a  pleasing  and  interesting  volume,  as  well  as  an 
agreeable  one  for  the  purpose  for  which  it  is  intended. 
August,  1853. 


n/-^ 


160986 


CONTENTS. 


The  Quiet    Eye, 

When  Life  hath  Sorrow  found, 

Lucy  Hinchhff, Thomas  Campion 

A  Village  Sketch, Mrs.  Bartholomew 

Woman  and  Domestics,  .  .  C.  Barmby,  .  . 
Song,  sent  with  a  rose,  .  .  John  Cunningham 
The  School-Fellows, .  .    .    -A.  Weaver,  .  .    . 

The  Recruit, Mrs.  C.  B.  Wilson 

The  Secret, Camilla  Toulmin, 

Sonnet, Joseph  Fearn,  .  . 

Kate  of  Kildare, M.  L.  Gillies,  . 

Friendship, S.Johnson,.   .    . 

Uncle  Benjie's  Ring,  .  .  .  G.  C.  P.,  .  .  .  • 
The  Ivy  ajid  the  Oak,  .  .  .  Mary  H.  Acton, 
The  Heroine  of  the  Huon,  .  M.  Leman  Gillies 

Hymn  of  Nature, Mrs.  Hemans,  .  . 

The  Sacrifice,   .    .   . 


The  Exile's  Farewell,  .    . 

Life  behind  the  Counter 

A  Farewell  to  the  Lyre,  , 

Blighted  Homes,  .... 

The  Poor  Man's  May, 

The  Well  of  St.  Keyne, 

Recollections  of  the  Gifted,  .  Elizabeth  Youatt 

To  a  Profile, B.  Barton,  .    .    . 

Lucy  and  her  Lovers, .   .    .  C.  Toulmin,  .  .   . 
Fireside  Affections,  ....  Mary  L.  Gillies, 


.  Anonymous,  .  .  . 
. Jane  Sparrow,  . 
.  Camilla  Toulmin, 
.  E.L.Montagu,  . 
.  M.  L.  Gillies,  . 
.  J.  Saunders,  .  . 
.  Anna  Savage,  .  . 


Page 
.   9 

.  11 
.  12 
.  26 
.  29 
.  35 
.  36 
.  48 
.  50 
.  73 
.  74 
.  92 
.  94 
.105 
.  108 
.117 
.  119 
.131 
.  132 
.164 
.166 
.  185 
.  187 
.191 
.212 
.214 
.226 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Old  Haunts, M.  F.  Tupfer 233 

The  Blue  Eyes, Camilla  Toulmin,  .   .   .  234 

The  Warm  Young  Heart,  .  Martin  F.  Tupfer,  .   .  249 

Th€  Happy  Family,   .    .    .  Anonymous, 250 

The  Law  of  Opinion,  .    .    .G.  C.Munro, 251 

Stanzas, Anonymous, 296 

Autumn  Flowers, Miss  E.  A.  Starr,  .    .   .298 

Plighted  Troth, Mrs.  Abdy, 300 

Young:   Thoughts   make 
Young  Hearts, C.  Campbell, 321 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Subjects.  Engravers.  Page 

Presentation  Plate, Sharp. 

Illuminated  Title  Page,  .    .    .  Sharp. 

The  Look  Out, 0.  Pelton, 50 

The  Quiet  Bay, 0.  Pelton, 117 

Well  of  St.  Ke/ne, 0.  Pelton, 187 

Happy  Family, 0.  Pelton, 250 


THE 


CASKET 


THE  QUIET  EYE. 

The  orb  I  like  is  not  the  one 

That  dazzles  with  its  lightning  gleam, 
That  dares  to  look  upon  the  sun 

As  though  it  challenged  brighter  beam. 
That  orb  may  sparkle,  flash  and  roll ; 

Its  fire  may  blaze,  its  shaft  may  fly ; 
But  not  for  me :  I  prize  the  soul 

That  slumbers  in  a  quiet  eye. 

There's  something  in  its  placid  shade 

That  tells  of  calm  unworldly  thought ; 
Hope  may  be  crowned,  or  joy  delayed, 

No  dimness  steals,  no  ray  is  caught ; 
Its  pensive  language  seems  to  say, 

I  know  that  I  must  close  and  die  ; 
And  death  itself,  come  when  it  may, 

Can  hardly  change  the  quiet  eye. 


10  THE    QUIET    HOME. 

There  's  meaning  in  its  steady  glance, 

Of  gentle  blame  or  praising  love, 
That  makes  me  tremble  to  advance 

A  word  that  meaning  might  reprove. 
The  haughty  threat,  the  fiery  look, 

My  spirit  proudly  can  defy  ; 
But  never  yet  could  meet  and  brook 

The  upbraiding  of  a  quiet  eye. 

There's  firmness  in  its  even  light, 

That  augurs  of  a  breast  sincere  ; 
And  oh  !  take  watch  how  ye  excite 

That  firmness  till  it  yield  a  tear. 
Some  bosoms  give  an  easy  sigh, 

Some  drops  of  grief  will  freely  start ; 
But  that  which  sears  the  quiet  eye, 

Hath  its  deep  fountain  in  the  heart. 


"WHEN  LIFE  HATH   SORROW  POUND." 

"  When  life  hath  sorrow  found, 

Fond  words  may  faker ; 
But  hearts  that  love  hath  bound 

Time  cannot  alter. 
No,  though  in  grief  we  part, 

Meet  in  dejection, 
Tears  but  expand  the  heart, 

Ripen  affection. 
When  life  hath  sorrow  found, 

Fond  words  may  falter  ; 
But  hearts  that  love  hath  bound 

Time  cannot  alter. 

"  When  o'er  a  distant  sea. 

When  griefs  are  nearest, 
Still  will  I  think  of  thee. 

Still  love  thee,  dearest. 
Tired  hope  may,  like  the  rose, 

Fade  'neath  time's  fleetness. 
Yet  yield  each  blast  that  blows 

Half  its  own  sweetness. 
When  life  hath  sorrow  found, 

Fond  words  may  falter ;      ^ 
But  hearts  that  love  hath  bound 

Time  cannot  alter." 


12 


LUCY   HINCHLIFF, 

THE    DAILY    GOVERNESS. 

BY     THOMAS     CAMPION. 

The  lark  went  up  to  heaven,  seeming-  to  beat 
his  breast  against  the  ancient  sky ;  yet  tiny  speck 
as  he  was  —  scarcely  discernible  to  the  keenest 
vision  —  his  song  was  audible  to  Lucy  Hinch- 
liff  in  her  mother's  little  garden.  Lucy  was  a 
daily  governess,  and  was  in  the  act  of  plucking 
a  rose  to  adorn  her  bosom,  before  she  set  out  to 
enter  upon  the  day's  routine.  She  cast  her  eyes 
around  the  modest  garden  —  it  was  a  very  mod- 
est, very  little  garden  —  looked  up  at  the  lark 
once  more,  received  the  last  note  of  its  song  into 
her  soul,  smiled  at  the  grey-headed  mother  in 
the  pinched  widow's  cap,  who  was  standing  at 
the  window,  waved  her  adieux,  and  closed  the 
small  gate  after  her. 

There  was  not  in  all  the  suburb  in  which  we 
lived,  a  better  girl,  a  prettier  girl,  a  more  loving, 
more  dutiful  daughter,  than  Lucy  Hinchliff.  She 
first  attracted  our  attention  when  we  went,  with 
satchel  on  our  back,  willingly  enough  to  school. 
She  was  younger  by  two  years  than  ourselves  — 
a  little,  timid  thing,  as  we  remember  her.     She 


LUCY   HINCHLIFF.  13 

had  a  father  at  that  time,  but  we  could  see  that 
the  old  gentleman  was  poor ;  and  once  we  were 
prompted  to  offer  her  some  of  our  victuals  which 
we  bore  in  our  bag,  (for  we  dined  at  school,) 
fearing  that  she  had  not  enough  to  eat  at  home. 
It  was  only  a  boy's  thought,  and  now  we  are 
more  happy  that  we  did  not  commit  ourselves 
by  the  insult,  than  if  we  had  realized  our  early 
dreams,  those  bubbles  bred  in  a  child's  active 
brain. 

Her  father  died,  and  they  became  poorer.  A 
rich  relation  took  Lucy  away  to  bestow  upon  her 
a  superior  education.  It  was  all  he  could  do  for 
her,  he  said;  though  he  kept  his  carriage,  and 
his  servants,  and  cast  bread  to  dogs.  She  re- 
turned to  her  mother  after  three  years,  to  aid 
their  mutual  support  by  teaching. 

Who  knows,  besides  themselves,  the  lives  that 
daily  governesses  lead?  who  has  tasted,  besides 
themselves,  the  bitterness  of  the  bread  they  eat? 
The  fine  mistress  may  not  frown  too  severely 
upon  her  cook  or  footman.  They  would  resent 
it,  and  would  seek  another  place.  But  the  poor 
governess !  That  she  will  resign  her  engage- 
ment is  not  apprehended.  And  are  there  not 
dozens  —  scores,  who  would  be  glad  to  succeed 
her,  if  she  gave  herself  airs  ?  There  are  trage- 
dies in  real  life  more  sad  to  witness  than  any  of 
the  histrionic  art,  and  the  life  of  the  daily  gov- 
2 


14  LUCY    Hi:S'CHLIFF, 

erness,  in  meagre  circumstances,  is  one  whole 
tragedy. 

Lucy  HinchlifF  closed  the  garden  gate,  and 
passed  from  her  mother's  sight.  It  Vvas  a  fine 
morning,  and  she  was  early.  She  had,  there- 
fore, no  occasion  to  hurry,  as  she  was  sometimes 
obliged  to  do.  She  felt  very  glad  that  the  morn- 
ing was  fine,  for  to  tell  a  homely  truth,  her  shoes 
—  well  nigh  worn  out — were  far  from  being 
water-proof.  She  had  sat  all  day  with  wet  feet 
once  before,  from  the  same  cause,  and  much  need 
she  had  to  be  careful  of  her  health  for  her  moth- 
er's sake.  She  had  few  acquaintances  on  the 
road  she  traversed  —  though  she  was  familiar  as 
their  own  children's  faces  to  all  the  small  trades- 
men—  they  saw  her  pass  so  regularly  morning 
and  evening.  The  green-grocer  would  fre- 
quently tell  his  wife  that  it  was  time  to  get  the 
breakfast,  for  the  young  lady  with  the  music- 
paper  was  abroad.  The  toll-gate  keeper  was 
Lucy's  only  speaking  acquaintance  of  the  male 
sex.  He  had  always  a  kind  word  for  her.  Nor 
did  Lucy  fail  to  ask  him  after  the  child  that  was 
scalded  —  a  frightful  accident  that  —  or  whether 
his  eldest  girl  was  at  service  yet,  and  other  little 
queries.  "  There  she  goes,"  the  man  would  say, 
when  she  had  turned  from  him.  "  Her's  is  a 
hard  life,  poor  thing!" 

"  Not  hard  at   all,  Mister  Marten,"  retorted 


THE    DAILY    GOVERNESS.  1& 

Dame  Wringlmen  on  one  occasion.  "Hard, 
indeed  !  I  think  she  's  got  a  very  easy  berth  o't. 
Put  her  over  a  washing  tub,  and  give  her  three 
or  four  counterpanes  for  a  morning's  work,  and 
see  what  she  'd  make  o't." 

"Ah,   you.  don't  know  all!"    said  the   toll- 
keeper,  significantly.     And  he  was  right. 

The  lady  at  whose  house  Lucy  commenced 
the  instructions  of  the  day,  was  a  very  nervous 
lady  indeed ;  and  like  your  nervous  people,  she 
was  extremely  irascible.     Lucy's  knock  offended 
her.     She  hated  single  knocks.     Why  had  they 
a  bell,  if  it  was  not  to  exempt  the  house  from  the 
vulgarity  of  single  knocks?     Once,  in  a  fit  of 
forgetfulness,  the  governess  gave  a  palpitating 
double  knock,  and  then  Mrs.  Robert  Smith  was 
astonished  at  her  presumption.     "  Miss  — Miss 
—  I  forget  your  name  —  "     Mrs.  Robert  Smith 
often  contrived  to  forget  a  name  which  was  the 
property  of  a  humble   dependant,  and  was   so 
much  better  than  her  own. 

"Hinchliff,  ma'am,"  prompted  Lucy  on  the 
occasion  referred  to. 

"  Ah,  Hinchliff.  Well,  Miss  Hinchliff,  if,  for 
the  future,  you  would  remember  not  to  give  a 
double  knock,  you  would  oblige  me.  I  really 
thought  it  was  visitors,  and,  as  I  am  in  my  desha- 
bille,°it  set  me  all  in  a  flutter  — you  should  con- 
sider my  nerves,  Miss  Hinchliff." 


16  LUCY    HINCHLIFF, 

Poor  Lucy  !  If  she  could  have  afforded  to  ba 
so  much  m  fashion  as  to  own  to  the  possession 
of  nerves,  the  lady's  nervousness  would  have 
infected  her. 

"  Now,  Miss  Hinchliff,"  said  Mrs.  Robert 
Smith,  when  the  governess  had  taken  off  her 
bonnet  and  shawl  on  the  miorning  we  make  her 
acquaintance ;  "  are  you  up  in  those  new  qua- 
drilles 3^et  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  ma'am,  but  I  have  been  so 
much  engaged  —  I  only  took  them  home  the  day 
before  yesterday,  and  so  little  of  my  time  is  my 
own." 

"  Well,  Miss  Hinchliff,  of  course,  if  you  have 
too  many  engagements,  and  my  dear  children 
are  to  be  neglected  on  that  account,  it  will  be  Mr. 
Robert  Smith's  duty  to  seek  another  responsible 
person,  whose  engagements  are  not  so  numer- 
ous;  you  cannot  object  to  that,  I  am  sure." 

"Oh,  ma'am,"  w^as  Lucy's  faltering  reply; 
"I  am  too  happy  to  be  employed  by  you.  I  will 
be  sure  to  get  the  quadrilles  ready  by  to-morrow." 

God  pity  her.  She  spoke  the  truth.  She  w^as 
too  happy  to  be  employed  by  Mrs.  Robert  Smith. 

"  I  will  excuse  you  this  time.  Miss  Hinchliff,' 
said  the  lady,  conciliated  by  Lucy's  answer,  "but 
I  shall  certainly  expect  the  quadrilles  to-morrow. 
I  think  you  said  when  we  first  engaged  you,  that 
you  taught  Italian  ?     Priscilla  is  to  learn  it." 


THE    DAILY    GOVEKXESS.  17 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy,  ma'am,"  replied  Lucy, 
brightening  up. 

"  Mr.  Robert  Smith  says  that  he  has  read  — 
he  is  a  great  reader,  as  you  know  —  that  there 
are  some  very  pretty  poems  in  Italian,  though  he 
called  one  by  a  very  shocking  name  —  a  kind  of 
playhouse  thing." 

"  Which  was  that,  ma'am  ? "  inquired  Lucy, 
mentally  reverting  to  Goldoni  and  Metastasio. 

"  You  ought  to  tell  me''  replied  the  lady. 
"  You  know,  of  course  —  the  pretty  Italian  poem 
with  the  playhouse  name." 

"  Do  3^ou  mean  Dante's  Divine  Comedy^ 
ma'am  ? " 

"  Yes,  that  is  it  —  a  very  pretty  poem  —  is  it 
not?" 

"  It  is  considered  a  very  fine  poem,  ma'am." 

"  Yes,  pretty  or  fine  —  that 's  what  Mr.  Robert 
Smith  called  it ;  though  I  think,  if  'tis  a  comedy, 
it  shouldn't  be  called  Divi?ie.'" 

Lucy  assured  the  lady  that  the  Divina  Corn- 
media  was  not  a  play  in  five  acts,  with  stage 
directions,  but  rather  a  religious  poem. 

"  I  understand  your  meaning,"  said  her  em- 
ployer; "something  like  Milton,  I  suppose.  I 
have  heard  Mr.  Robert  Smith  remxark  —  his 
remarks  are  so  to  the  purpose  —  that  Milton  was 
a  tragedy,  quite.  You  will  understand  that  you 
are  to  leach  Priscilla  Italian.  And  about  the 
2^ 


18  LUCY    HINCHLIFF, 

terms,  Mr.  Eobert  Smith  says  you  are  not  to 
increase  them,  as  he  really  can't  afford  it." 

"  Ma'am,"  said  Lucy,  astonished. 

"  If  you  object,  of  course,  we  must  find  another 
responsible  person,  who  will  include  Italian  for 
the  amount  of  your  present  salary." 

Lucy's  mother  was  in  failing  health.  Need 
we  say  that  she  was  "  too  happy "  to  teach 
Italian  without  remuneration,  under  the  circum- 
stances. On  the  same  morning  Mrs.  Robert 
Smith  dismissed  her  cook,  Avho  blundered  at  a 
yate  de  foie  gras,  and  hired  another  at  greatly 
enlarged  wages. 

The  widow  Hinchliff  was  not  only  in  failing 
health,  but  she  was  nearer  death  than  Lucy  had 
any  idea  of.  When  the  poor  girl  returned  home 
that  evening — she  went  to  six  houses  first,  and 
walked  a  distance  of  seventeen  miles  —  she  found 
that  her  parent  had  been  obliged  to  retire  to  bed. 
The  servant,  alarmed  by  her  mistress'  condition, 
had  called  in  a  neighbor,  who  only  waited  for 
Lucy's  return  to  urge  the  propriety  of  sending 
for  a  doctor.  Lucy  not  only  assented,  but  ran 
herself  to  fetch  one.  "  I  can  give  you  no  hope," 
he  said  ;  and  she  felt  that  a  blight  had  indeed 
passed  over  her  young  life.  When  one  that  we 
dearly  love  is  stricken  down  to  die,  we  look  out 
upon  the  world  as  if  we  had  no  longer  hope,  or 
part,  or  any  lot  therein. 


THE    DAILY    GOVERNESS.  19 

She  had  to  practise  the  quadrilles  that  night, 
on  her  hired  piano,  in  fulfilment  of  the  promise 
made  to  Mrs.  Robert  Smith.  Her  mother  had 
fallen  into  one  of  those  dozing,  restless  slumbers, 
peculiar  to  a  state  of  sickness,  and  the  thought 
of  waking  the  notes  of  gay  quadrille  music  in  the 
house,  on  whose  threshold,  even  at  that  moment. 
Death,  the  destroyer,  stood,  shocked  Lucy's  feel- 
ings. No,  she  could  not  do  that,  let  Mrs.  Robert 
Smith  say  what  she  pleased. 

She  sat  through  the  longest  night  she  had 
ever  known  —  for  the  heart  measures  the  hours, 
not  the  clock  —  a  w^atcher  by  her  mother's  bed. 
When  the  glad  sunlight  came  gushing  in  at  the 
casement,  and  lark  after  lark  poured  forth  his 
jubilant  thanksgiving  for  his  sleep  in  the  dewy 
grass,  she  undressed  herself,  and  went  to  her 
own  chamber,  leaving  the  servant  to  supply  her 
place.  There  was  no  visible  alteration  in  her 
parent  when,  with  many  fears  and  with  one  of 
the  saddest  hearts  that  ever  beat  in  human 
bosom,  she  left  the  cottage  upon  her  constant, 
diurnal  mission.  She  was  late,  and  had  to  walk 
hurriedly.  It  rained  too,  and  the  water  soaked 
through  the  leaky  shoes.  She  had  no  smile  for 
the  toll-gate  keeper.  He  saw  that  she  was  sad, 
and  contented  himself  with  a  touch  of  his  hat,  by 
way  of  recognition.  He  was  sad  too,  for  the 
scalded  child  had  died  during  the  night.     "  Best 


20  LUCY    HIXCHLIFF, 

not  to  tell  her  now,"  he  thought ;  "  she  has  her 
own  trouble  this  morning."  God  help  her.  She 
had  indeed. 

"You  are  full  ten  minutes  behind  your  time 
Miss  Hinchliff.  I  never  find  you  staying  ten 
minutes  over  your  time,"  was  Mrs.  Robert 
Smith's  salutation. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Ma'am ;  but  I  left  my 
mother  at  home  very  ill  —  dying,  ma'am,  the 
doctor  says,"  replied  Lucy,  bursting  into  tears. 

"  Dying  !  dear  me.  Of  course  you  feel  very 
much  put  out ;  but  punctuality,  Mr.  Robert  Smith 
says,  is  the  soul  of  an  engagement- — and  you 
have  a  character  to  keep  up  —  but  as  you  are 
come,  you  can  set  Priscilla's  mind  at  ease  :  she 
is  dying  to  play  the  quadrilles,  and  to  begin  her 
Italian." 

"I  —  I  was  unable  to  run  them  through  last 
night,  ma'am,"  stammered  Lucy,  "  my  mother 
was  so  ill." 

"  Then  you  are  not  ready  with  those  qua- 
drilles again.  Miss  Hinchliff !"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Robert  Smith ;  "  really,  at  j'our  age,  a  young 
woman  should  know  the  value  of  her  promise." 

"  I  could  not  disturb  my  mother,"  said  Lucy, 
appealingly. 

"  Of  course,  I  take  all  that  into  consideration," 
replied  her  employer.  "  But  you,  as  a  responsi- 
ble person,  should  know  the  value  of  a  promise. 


THE    DAILY    GOVERNESS.  21 

However,  I  will  excuse  you  since  your  mother  is 
dying ;  only  don't  let  it  happen  again.  You  will 
commence  Priscilla's  Italian  this  morning,  of 
course  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  forget  my 
own  grammar,  but  if  Priscilla  is  provided  with 
one " 

"  Her  father  says  that  he  cannot  afford  any 
Italian  books,  her  French  ones  came  so  expen- 
sive. He  thought  you  could  have  no  objection 
to  lend  her  yours." 

What  could  Lucy  say,  but  that  her  books  were 
at  Priscilla's  service  ? 

Her  mother  was  worse  that  evening,  and  had 
been,  as  the  neighbor  said,  delirious  during  her 
absence.  Lucy  asked  herself  whether  she  should 
practise  the  quadrilles.  She  was  not  long  in 
deciding.  Though  they  should  go  without 
bread,  she  would  not  forget  her  duty  as  a  daugh- 
ter.    Her  place  was  at  her  mother's  bedside. 

That  day  Mr.  Robert  Smith  paid  a  visit  to  a 
friend  whose  governess  not  only  taught  Italian 
for  the  same  salary  that  was  paid  to  Lucy  Hinch- 
liff,  but  also  professed  to  include  Spanish.  When 
Lucy  was  admitted  the  next  morning,  the  lady 
placed  a  small  sum  of  money  in  her  hand,  and 
informed  her  that  "domestic  arrangements" 
would  render  her  attendance  in  future  unneces- 
sary.    The  poor  girl  was  not  at  all  cast  down  by 


22  LUCY    HIXCHLIFF, 

this  circumstance.  Was  not  her  mother  ill  — 
dying  at  home  ?  She  would  not  be  obliged  to 
leave  her  so  early  in  the  morning. 

Her  mother  died  three  days  afterwards.  A 
letter  sent  by  Lucy  to  the  rich  relation  brought 
a  cool  answer  back,  in  which  the  writer  recom- 
mended her  to  be  industrious,  and  to  "  keep  her 
character." 

And  now  Lucy  was  alone  in  the  world,  in 
which  are  so  many  faces,  and  so  many  hearts 
beating  with  warm  life.  Even  the  toll-gate 
keeper  had  disappeared.  His  place  was  supplied 
by  a  stranger,  a  man  of  coarse,  repulsive  aspect. 
Lucy  felt  the  loss  even  of  that  acquaintance. 

Within  a  month  after  her  mother's  death,  she 
was  compelled  to  resign  another  of  her  engage- 
ments ;  her  employer,  a  widower,  having  made 
dishonorable  proposals  to  her.  She  advertised 
in  the  papers,  but  could  not  meet  with  an  ap- 
pointment.    She  had  removed  into  lodgings  now. 

One  night  —  it  was  a  cold,  rainy  November 
night  —  Lucy  Hinchliffsat  in  her  little  room  by 
her  fire,  much  pondering  over  many  things,  but 
chiefest  what  it  was  fitting  for  a  young  girl  like 
her  to  do,  who  being  so  unprotected,  was  exposed 
to  so  many  insults.  She  gazed  at  her  mother's 
portrait  which  hung  over  the  mantle-shelf,  and 
seemed  to  ask  advice  of  the  dead.     But  the  dead 


THE    DAILY    GOVERNESS.  23 

replied  not.  Only  the  bleak  wind  whistled. 
Only  the  rain  beat  against  the  windows-panes. 

There  was  a  stir  below,  as  of  feet  coming  up 
stairs.  Lucy  heard  it  without  heed.  The  feet 
came  higher  and  higher,  how^ever,  and  halted  at 
her  door  ;  upon  the  panels  of  which  a  rap 
sounded  as  from  determined,  sturdy  knuckles. 
The  governess  started,  and  cried,  "  Come  in," 
and  a  man  came  in. 

It  was  her  old  acquaintance,  the  toll-keeper. 

But  not  dressed  as  he  was  formerly.  No.  He 
wore  a  bran  new  suit  of  superfine  Saxony  cloth, 
and  a  gold  watch-guard  communicated  with  his 
vest  pocket.  As  far  as  equipment  went,  he  was 
in  all  respects  the  gentleman.  And  in  the  heart 
besides  —  in  the  heart  besides. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss,  for  intruding  upon 
you,"  he  said,  bashfully.  "  I  am  come  to  speak 
to  you  about  educating  my  children." 

Lucy  bowed.  She  thought  she  had  misunder- 
stood him. 

"  I  am  come  into  a  large  fortune  lately.  Miss 
—  a  very  large  fortune  —  a  matter  of  a  thousand 
a  year.  I  knew  no  more  of  it,  three  months  ago, 
bless  you,  than  the  man  in  the  moon;  and  I 
think,  and  my  wife  thinks,  that  our  girls  ought 
to  be  educated." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Lucy,  vacantly.  She  thought 
she  was  dreaming. 


24  LUCY    HINCHLIFF, 

"  And  so  we  agreed  that  if  you  would  come 
and  live  with  us  —  we  lives  in  a  fine  house  now 
—  and  be  one  of  ourselves,  and  teach  the  chil- 
dren, we  thought  that  we  should  take  it  very 
kind  of  you." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Lucy,  mechanically,  for  she 
was  not  a  whit  the  nearer  waking. 

"  And  if  you  would  think  two  hundred  pounds 
a  year,  and  a  room  of  your  own,  enough,  it  is 
yours  to-morrow;  and  that's  all  about  it." 

The  speaker,  in  the  excitement  of  having  ac- 
complished his  errand,  clapped  his  hat  on  his 
head,  and  breathed  freely.  But  he  recollected 
himself,  and  took  his  hat  off  again. 

"  You  wish  me  to  be  governess  to  your  chil- 
dren. Do  I  understand  you  aright?"  said  Lucy, 
only  half  conscious  that  the  scene  was  real. 

"  Yes,  Miss,  if  you  please  ;  and  if  two  hun- 
dred a  year  would  satisfy  you,  why  —  whv  it's 
done,  and  that 's  just  where  it  is." 

"I  thank  God!"  cried  Lucy,  bursting  into 
tears.  She  was  wide  awake,  and  understood  all 
now. 

It  was  all  true  —  that  was  the  best  of  it.  The 
man  had  really  inherited  a  large  fortune,  left  him 
by  some  relative,  hitherto  unheard  of.  And  was 
not  his  early  thought  about  the  poor  governess, 
who  gave  him  a  good  word  every  morning,  and 
inquired  after  Billv,  who  was  scalded?     Yes 


THE    DAILY    GOVERNESS.  25 

for  he  had  heard  of  her  mother's  death,  and  the 
proud  consciousness  of  being  able  to  confer  a 
benefit  on  an  orphan  girl,  elated  his  heart  as 
much  as  the  possession  of  a  thousand  pounds  per 
annum.  Lucy,  of  course,  would  not  consent  to 
receive  the  salary  he  had  named.  How  it  was 
finally  settled,  this  chronicler  knows  not;  but 
Lucy  dwells  with  the  quondam  toll-keeper,  and 
looks  happy  —  very  happy. 

A  small  white  stone  has  been  erected  at  her 
mother's  grave.     You  may  see  it,  if  you  will 
walk  for  the  purpose,  to  x\bney  Park  Cemetery, 
Stoke-Newington. 
3 


26 


A  VILLAGE   SKETCH. 

BY     MRS.     BARTHOLOMEW. 

THE  SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 

The  heat  of  day  is  passed,  and  summer's  eve 
With  zeph}T  wing  has  fanned  the  glowing  earth ; 
The  perfumed  air  is  filled  with  song  of  birds, 
And  music  of  the  streams,  the  hum  of  bees, 
The  shepherd's  pipe,  and  lowing  of  the  kine : 
So  let  us  leave  the  dull  and  dusty  town, 
And  bend  our  steps  across  the  cowslip  field. 
Where  at  the  bottom  runs  a  little  brook, 
Watering  the  garden  of  our  childhood's  school. 

^  ^  -^  -^t*  -5ij-  -ai* 

'TV'  'TV'  "TV*  'TV'  •Tf'  *7«* 

And  now  we  stand  upon  the  wooden  bridge  — 
The  same  old  plank  which,  long,  long  years  ago, 
Creaked  even  then  beneath  our  tiny  feet, 
As,  pausing  to  take  breath,  we  reached  the  gate 
Just  as  the  church-clock  struck  the  hour  of  nine. 
There  is  the  house !  —  the  casement  opened  wide ; 
And  peeping  through  the  honeysuckle  leaves 
Are  tearful  eyes,  —  a  truant  child  with  book 
In  hand  —  but  not  in  heart  —  she  cannot  learn 
The  task,  for  weeping  o'er .  her  faults,  which 
caused  disOTace. 


A.   VILLAGE    SKETCH.  27 

Come,  let  us  seek  her  pardon  now, 
For  sorrow  should  not  stain  the  youthful  cheek, 
But  may  give  place  where  penitence  is  seen ! 
There  is  the  mistress,  worn,  and  stern,  and  gray ; 
How  beautiful  she  was  when  we  were  young ! 
Dost  thou  remember,  when  our  work  was  o'er, 
How  on  that  rustic  seat,  half  hidden  now 
By  moss  and  ivy  which  we  planted  there, 
She  sang  us  ancient  ballads  of  our  land, — 
Or  told  with  gentle  voice  sweet  fairy  tales 
To  wondering  listeners,  who  in  after  years 
Look  back  upon  those  recreations  pure  — 
The  one  green  spot  amid  the  world's  drear  waste. 
And  she,  the  empress  of  that  magic  realm. 
Is  powerless  now,  her  sunless  stream  of  life 
Flows  on  with  no  bright  flowers  on  its  breast ; 
From  morn  till  night  she  bears  the  withering  fate 
Of  toiling  for  herself;  know  ye  what  'tis 
To  aid  a  parent  as  she  feebler  grows  ? 
If  so,  ye  can  define  her  depth  of  woe 
When  first  she  gazed  upon  the  unpressed  couch, 
The  vacant  chair,  —  the  breakfast-table  spread, 
And  no  beloved  or  cherished  one  to  share 
The  simple  hard-earned  meal. 

Peace  to  the  dead  ! 
The  mother  sleeps  beneath  the  churchyard  turf, 
And  he  who  wooed  and  won  her  daughter's  heart 
Has  gained  a  richer  bride  —  a  common  tale, 
But  not  less  true,  and  not  less  anguish-fraught. 


2S  A    VILLAGE    SKETCH. 

Hush  !  she  observes  us,  and  her  pale  lips  wear 
The  smile  of  happier  times  ;  her  trembling  hand 
Clasps  mine,  and  as  of  old  she  welcomes  me, — 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  once  more  a  child. 


29 


WOMAN  AND  DOMESTICS. 

BY     CATHERINE     BARM BY. 

That  there  is  a  vast  amount  of  evil  and  suffer- 
ing throughout  the  ramifications  of  society,  is  the 
general  admission.  It  should  also  be  evident  that 
a  great  mass  of  the  misery  endured  is  caused 
by  the  imperfect  forms  which  constitute  our  pres- 
ent social  condition.  Appeals  are  made  to  the 
legislature,  and  petitions  are  forwarded  to  the 
government,  with  the  expectation  that  relief  will 
be  obtained  :  while,  at  the  same  time,  it  may 
clearly  be  seen  that  neither  the  legislature  nor 
the  government  can  fully  effect  the  remedy,  and 
that  we  are  neglecting  our  own  duty,  and  disobey- 
ing the  dictates  of  our  common  sense,  in  asking 
others  to  do  that  which  we  can  best  do  ourselves. 

To  reorganize  society,  to  render  it  more  blessed 
and  happier,  its  domestic  condition  has  to  be  im- 
proved. Now  domestics  form  a  sphere  which 
belongs  essentially  to  woman.  It  is  her  absolute 
province;  in  it  she  reigns  queen,  and  man  can- 
not, if  he  would,  deprive  her  of  her  sovereignty, 
because  it  has  been  allotted  to  her  by  that  wis- 
dom whose  decrees  human  power  or  will  is  not 
able  to  withstand.  Think  of  it  as  we  may,  the 
3^ 


80  WOMAN    AND    DOMESTICS. 

laws  and  order  of  society  are,  in  their  origin, 
divine  —  hence  the  woe  that  follows  our  trans- 
gressions. If  we  sow  the  storm,  we  reap  the 
whirlwind.  So  fares  it  in  all  parts  of  God's 
earth.  And  thus,  it  is  not  so  much  contradic- 
tory change,  as  further  development,  that  is 
needed. 

Customs  and  habits,  private  and  public  man- 
ners, dress,  and  the  whole  circle  of  home  duties, 
are  included  in  domestics.  It  is  surely  as  im- 
portant then  as  politics,  and  as  difficult  to  regu- 
late. Yet  it  is  not  the  Houses  of  Representatives 
that  can  legislate  for  it;  for  the  reason  that 
women  do  not  deliberate,  and  cannot  pass  their 
judgment,  in  them. 

The  workings  of  society  in  its  state  of  civiliza- 
tion have  revealed,  partially,  the  true  order  of 
nature  in  the  division  of  duties  for  the  sexes. 
To  the  woman,  the  interior  or  household  eco- 
nomics ;  to  the  man,  the  exterior  or  politics.  Both 
are  valuable,  and  have  elements  in  common 
together.  Man  should  not  be  entirely  ignorant 
of  home  management,  nor  should  woman  be  left 
unacquainted  with  laws  and  governmental  policy. 
Their  own  and  their  children's  welfare  are  con- 
nected with  both  ;  and  therefore,  to  the  mother 
and  the  father,  they  stand  each  as  a  great  sub- 
ject. Civilization,  hitherto,  it  is  not  to  be  lost 
sight  of,  has  influenced  woman  only  materially 


wo:max  and  domestics.  31 

in  the  discharge  of  her  home  duties.  It  has 
taught  her  to  barter,  to  buy  the  cap  and  gown 
cheap,  careless  of  the  ruin  she  may  bring  downi 
upon  the  seller.  Competition,  in  its  lowest 
grades,  has  received  the  greatest  enconragement 
from  woman.  The  sufferings  of  fellow-creatures 
have  not  been  thought  of,  when  shillings  and  six- 
pences were  to  be  saved.  Dress  and  furniture, 
company  and  so-called  amusement,  the  rivalry, 
jealousy,  and  wretchedness  they  have  engen- 
dered, render  them  in  their  very  enumeration 
terrifying,  and  make  us  hurry  to  get  away  from 
their  reviewal. 

Civilization  has  not  finished  her  work.  She, 
like  an  educating  parent,  will  perfect  in  her 
adult  what  she  could  only  commence  with  her 
infant  children.  She  will  now  teach  woman 
spiritually  the  devotion  of  her  home  duties  I  — 
to  become  a  priestess,  even  at  her  hearth-side ! 
Elevated  and  strengthened,  her  footsteps  on  the 
earth  rendered  steady  and  secure,  how  rejoic- 
ingly will  she  live  in  the  land  where  she  now 
mourns  and  dwells  a  stranger ! 

The  instruction  of  woman  in  her  higher,  more 
spiritual,  home  duties,  is  one  of  the  greatest 
wants  of  the  age.  It  is  becoming  more  and  more 
apparent,  and,  if  not  speedily  attended  to,  will  be 
a  most  serious  drawback  to  the  progress  now 
souirht  to  be  made. 


32  WOMAN    AND    DOMESTICS. 

The  delicate  machinery  of  domestic  life  is  ever 
at  work,  producing  countless  shades  of  joy  and 
gloom.  It  is  from  the  flame  of  the  domestic 
hearth  that  the  warmth  and  lustre  of  some  of 
life's  most  refined  relations  are  derived.  Would 
that  this  flame  shone  more  brightly  now^ !  beamed 
forth  more  divinely,  holily  !  That  the  abodes  of 
our  people  Avere  more  cheered  by  its  rays  !  That 
the  dwellers  at  our  hearths  were  more  conscious 
of  its  presence.  How  general  is  poverty  !  how 
wide-spread  is  misery  !  Fearful  is  the  unright- 
eousness of  society  !  frightful  are  its  responsibili- 
ties ! 

Why  goes  forth  that  man  this  Saturday  even- 
ing from  the  roof  under  which  his  children  live  ? 
Why  turns  he  from  their  engaging  little  attempts 
to  detain  him,  and  roughly  moves  them  away, 
while  he  loves  them  dearly  ?  Why  sits  another 
by  his  fire,  sullen,  discontented,  unwilling  to 
speak  the  kindly  word,  while  his  heart  is  yearn- 
ing for  converse  and  enjoyment  ?  Why  flies  the 
cruel  speech  to  her  for  whom  the  bosom's  strong- 
est affection  is  nourished  ?  And  why,  search- 
ing into  deeper  depths,  why  does  man  become  so 
often  a  tyrant,  so  often  a  criminal,  in  his  home  ? 
Truth  has  to  be  told  ;  but,  oh  !  listen  to  it  kindly, 
for  it  is  hard  to  tell. 

It  is  because  woman  does  not  truly  appreciate 
her  mission  in  domestic  life.     Under  the  present 


WOMAN    AND    DOMESTICS.  33 

conditions  of  existence,  she  has  become  weighed 
down  by  cares.     As  a  wife  she  is  different  from 
what  she  was  as  a  maiden.     She  is  ever  em- 
ployed  in  drudgery  for  her  children  and  her 
household.     She  neglects  her  dress  ;  she  forgets 
her  manners.     Her  husband  sees  the  change, 
and  does  not  perhaps  find  sufficient  excuse  for  it 
from  the  conditions  she  labors  under.     He  flies 
to  the  tavern  and  billiard  table.     And  she  m- 
creases  in  sourness  and  asperity  as  she  increases 
in  years.     That  much  of  this  is  owing  to  the 
present  circumstances  of  social  life,  is  true ;  but 
that  much  of  it  is  chargeable  to  a  sad  submission 
to  those  circumstances,  is  also  but  too  true.     It 
is  more  or  less  in  the  power  of  women  to  make 
their  domestic  life  more  attractive  to  their  hus- 
bands, and  more  holy  in  its  disciplines  and  ends, 
than  they  now  do.     A  greater  regularity  m  time 
—  a  greater  simplicity  in  dress  — a  more  deter- 
mined adherence  to  that  xvhich  is  right  in  one's 
own  eyes,  rather  than  that  which  is  well  thought 
of  in  the  eyes  of  others  — an  orderly  apportion- 
ing of  various  periods  for  different  occupations  — 
would  make  evenings  at  home  pass  away  very 
differently  to  what,  in  the  great  majority  of  cases, 
they  now  are  doing. 

If  the  wife  will  begin  to  wish  her  husband  to 
read  the  last  new  periodical,  while  she  is  mend- 
ing his  stockings  ;  if,  even  while  at  work  herself, 


34  WOMAN    AND    DOMESTICS. 

she  will  now  and  then  talk  to  her  children  of  that 
which  is  good  and  pleasant,  as  a  priestess  should 
talk  —  and  every  mother  has  a  priestly  office  — 
she  will  hallow  and  lighten  her  own  labor,  and 
for  her  household  a  blessed  reform  will,  in  do- 
mestics, have  commenced. 

Oh,  for  a  power  to  hasten  this  period!  Oh, 
that  one  might  abide  the  dawning  of  that  bright 
day  when  domestic  love  and  family  enjoyment 
crown  the  great  social  destiny  of  humanity! 
Then  might  one  depart  in  peace,  and  the  beams 
of  the  good  time  come  be  over  us,  and  death  be 
hallowed  by  the  sanctification  of  life.  Follow 
out  God's  laws,  work  in  his  holy  order,  do  all 
things  in  season,  leaving  nought  undone  that 
should  be  done,  and  full  surely  this  divine,  this 
perfecting  labor  of  human  existence,  will  be  con- 
summated. 


35 


A  SONG,  SENT  WITH  A  ROSE, 

BY     JOHN     CUNNINGHAM. 

Yes,  every  flower  that  blows 

I  passed  unheeded  by, 
Till  this  enchanting  rose 

Had  fixed  my  wandering  eye ; 
It  scented  every  breeze, 

That  wantoned  o'er  the  stream, 
Or  trembled  through  the  trees, 

To  meet  the  morning  beam. 

To  deck  that  beauteous  maid, 

Its  fragrance  can't  excel. 
From  some  celestial  shade 

The  damask  charmer  fell ; 
And  as  her  balmy  sweets 

On  Chloe's  breast  she  pours. 
The  queen  of  Beauty  greets 

The  gentle  queen  of  Flowers. 


36 


THE    SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 

BYARNHELDT     WEAVER. 

It  was  a  wild  night.  The  wind  went  grum- 
bling through  wide  streets,  and  played  the  very 
maniac  in  courts  and  alleys  —  shrieking  —  howl- 
ing—  shaking  the  insecure  doors  of  the  crazy 
tenements  —  in  many  instances  bursting  them 
open,  and  taking  forcible  possession  of  the  houses, 
which  it  did  not  quit  till  it  had  penetrated  every 
hole  and  corner,  —  ransacked  every  recess, — 
turned  all  movable  articles  topsy-turvy,  and  filled 
the  wretched  apartments  with  suffocating,  blind- 
ing smoke,  sending  children  into  paroxysms  of 
coughing  and  squalling,  and  making  mothers  as 
frantic  as  itself.     This  did  the  wind. 

But  the  snow  led  the  van  that  night.  People 
could  have  borne  with  the  wind,  but  the  snow 
was  too  much  for  them.  It  was  a  fine  sight  to 
witness  in  its  driving,  headlong  career,  —  in  its 
infuriate,  headstrong  rage  ;  but  God  help  the 
wretch  who,  on  such  a  night,  can  look  on  nothing 
else.  The  streets,  of  course,  were  deserted  by 
everybody  but  the  houseless  and  the  police. 

The  clock  of  St.  Martin's  church  struck  the 
three-quarters  past  eleven,  as  a  man  of  middle 


THE    SCHOOL-FELLOWS.  37 

age  — if  years  be  reckoned,  but  judging  from  his 
appearance,  a  man  turned  of  sixty  —  issued  sud- 
denly from  a  dark  archway  in  the  Strand,  one 
of  those  obscure  passages  that  lead  down  to  the 
river,  and  followed  closely  in  the  steps  of  one  of 
his  own  sex,  who  had  just  passed  hurriedly  in 
the  direction  of  Charing  Cross.  The  cabs  were 
withdrawn  from  most  of  the  stands,  the  weather 
being  too  severe  even  for  a  cabman's  defiance, 
and  along  the  streets  which  the  person  thus  fol- 
lowed had  traversed  not  a  vehicle  had  appeared 
within  hail,  save  a  solitary  omnibus  which  was 
going  in  an  opposite  direction.  Thus  he  was 
compelled  to  walk,  or  was  more  properly  driven 
along  by  the  wind. 

The  man  who  issued  from  the  low-browed 
archway  had  fought  with  the  weather  from  his 
youth  upward,  and  exposure  to  the  elements  in 
this  our  English  climate  makes  a  man  prema- 
turely old.  He  had  been  hungry  too,  lean  and 
hungry,  from  his  boyish  days ;  and  constant 
hunger  is  a  great  promoter  of  senile  appearance. 
For  many  previous  years  he  had  slept  in  metro- 
politan and  suburban  churchyards,  —  an  animate 
corpse,  uncofhned  amongst  tombs.  He  stole 
when  he  could ;  but  not  being  an  expert  thief,  he 
ate  but  seldom,  and  the  wolf  gnawed  his  vitals  at 
all  hours  and  upon  all  days. 

He  followed  the  individual  we  have  alluded  to, 
4 


3S  THE    SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 

and  overtook  him  in  Parliament  street.  For 
some  minutes  they  walked  abreast,  the  almost 
nude  beside  the  well-clad  and  warmly-Avrapped 
man.  Suddenly  the  former,  falling  two  steps 
backward,  aimed  a  savage  blow,  and  a  senseless 
body  was  stretched  upon  the  snow  that  covered 
the  pavement  to  the  depth  of  several  inches. 
The  hungry  man,  having  scanned  the  street  with 
an  eye  quick  to  detect  the  advance  of  a  passen- 
ger, knelt  over  the  body  and  commenced  to  rifle 
it.  He  quickly  possessed  himself  of  a  purse  tol- 
erably well-filled,  a  gold  watch  and  a  pocket- 
book  ;  then  secreting  his  booty  as  well  as  he  was 
able  about  his  person,  he  fled :  almost  equalling 
the  wind  in  his  speed.  Some  five  or  six  minutes 
afterwards,  the  plundered  man,  recovering  him- 
self, got  up  and  started  off  towards  Westminster, 
crying  "  Thieves  !  thieves  ! "  But  the  thief  had 
gone  in  a  contrary  direction.  Encountering  only 
a  policeman  emerging  from  a  tavern,  and  smell- 
ing powerfully  of  rum,  who  proposed  to  run  and 
inquire  at  the  station-house,  and  hearing  no  foot- 
steps ahead,  he  gave  up  the  supposed  chase,  and 
resigned  himself  to  bear  his  loss. 

The  thief,  once  secure  from  pursuit,  took  his 
way  more  leisurely  towards  St.  Giles',  where  he 
procured  a  supper  and  a  bed,  and  awaited  the 
daylight  that  he  might,  unobserved,  examine  the 


THE    SCHOOL-FELLOWS.  39 

pocket-book  more  particularly,  and  dispose  of  the 
watch  to  a  cunning  Jew  living  in  Houndsditch. 

The  wind  had  subsided,  and  the  snow  had 
ceased  to  fall,  before  the  breaking  of  the  dawn. 
The  man  early  quitted  the  den  where  human 
creatures  slept  by  dozens,  of  both  sexes,  in  one 
room,  and  hurried  towards  the  Jew's  residence. 
But  turning  into  an  unoccupied  corner  on  his 
route,  he  paused  to  examine  the  pocket-book.  It 
contained  nothing  that  was  valuable,  only  a  few 
papers,  and  a  letter  or  two,  that  revealed  the 
owner's  name  and  address.  The  man  read,  for 
he  could  read,  the  superscription  of  these  letters, 
when  something  that  was  extraordinary  hap- 
pened. The  reader  started,  as  though  touched 
by  a  torpedo.  He  read  and  read  again.  A  cold 
perspiration  burst  from  every  pore  of  his  frame ; 
tears  stood  in  his  eyes.  He  turned  with  falter- 
ing steps,  and  set  out  to  find  the  abode  indicated 
by  the  letters. 

The  felon  soon  reached  the  house  of  the  man 
he  had  stunned  and  plundered  on  the  preceding 

night.     It  was  in street,  Westminster.     He 

passed  and  repassed.  The  sun  was  shining  in 
the  street;  the  fallen  snow  was  thawing  fast; 
the  air  was  fresh  and  mild ;  the  sky  was  un- 
clouded and  very  blue.  The  upper  blinds  of  the 
house  were  drawn  ;  it 'was  large  and  roomy,  the 
abode  of  a  prosperous,  world-favored  man.     The 


40  THE    SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 

outcast  went  towards  the  park  hastily,  with 
clenched  hands  and  convulsed  limbs.  About  to 
enter  the  enclosure,  a  beadle  repelled  him,  tell- 
ing him  in  surly  tones  to  begone  about  his  busi- 
ness. A  well-dressed  man  arriving  at  that  mo- 
ment, the  beadle  made  way  for  him. 

A  second  time  he  reached  the  house.  On  this 
occasion  he  summoned  courage  and  knocked. 
The  door  was  opened  by  a  liveried  footman,  rubi- 
cund, and  greasy ;  a  smirking,  cringing  fellow, 
when  accosted  by  a  wearer  of  good  apparel,  but 
of  freezing,  repulsive  front,  when  the  owner  of  an 
indifferent  garb  addressed  him.  He  had  too 
faithfully  aped  the  manners  of  the  different  mas- 
ters he  had  served  to  be  even  civil  to  the  like- 
ness of  God  when  garmented  in  rags.  The  out- 
cast fell  back  from  the  door,  repelled  by  the 
haughty,  insolent  air  of  the  menial  who  con- 
fronted him.  He  could  not  speak  the  words  he 
longed  to  speak  to  such  a  man ;  something  he 
stammered  out,  but  the  lackey's  "What  d'ye 
want  here"?  You  have  mistaken  the  house, 
have  n't  ye  ?  "  accompanied  by  a  wanton  gesture 
of  contempt,  sent  the  applicant  back  to  the  street. 

But  old  associations  had  been  that  morning 
awakened,  and  they  were  not  thus  roughly  to  be 
trampled  out.  The  man,  wandering  he  cared 
not  whither,  passed  the  'Abbey.  He  saw  the 
door  at  Poet's  Corner  open.     He  remembered  to 


THE    SCHOOL-FELLOWS.  41 

have  been  once  —  many  years  ago  it  was  —  in 
the  interior,  and  a  wish  to  see  again  those  speak- 
ing sights  which  are  there  treasured  up  in  chis- 
elled stone,  took  possession  of  him.  He  ap- 
proached the  door ;  a  verger  stood  on  the  thresh- 
old and  drove  him  away  —  away  from  God's 
temple. 

Driven  from  the  enclosure  of  the  park, — 
driven  from  the  temple,  —  the  poor  outcast 
directed  his  steps  towards  Westminster  Bridge ; 
there,  at  least,  he  might  stay,  thence  he  would 
not  be  driven,  and  there  he  could  see  the  sun- 
rays  descend  into  the  river.  But  being  weary, 
for  he  had  had  only  one  night's  unbroken  rest  in 
the  last  ninety-six  hours,  he  sat  down  upon  a 
door-step.  He  had  not  remained  there  many 
minutes  before  a  policeman  came  up  to  him. 
"  What  do  you  do  here  ?"  demanded  the  myrmi- 
don of  the  law. 

"  I  am  tired  out  —  I  am  only  resting,"  replied 
the  outcast. 

"  I  shall  take  you  to  the  station-house  then, 
and  you  '11  go  up  before  a  magistrate." 

"What  for?" 

"  For  exciting  Charity." 

And  the  policeman  was  as  good  as  his  word. 
Behold  them  before  the  officiating  magistrate. 
"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  cried  that  functionary, 
4^ 


42 


THE    SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 


"  that  you  have  arrested  this  man  for  merely  sit* 
ting  on  a  door-step  ?  " 

"  He  was  exciting-  charity,  your  wusship." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  Did  you  see  him 
beg?" 

"  No,  your  wusship.  But  I  think  he  sat  there 
to  excite  compassion." 

"  You  think  !     Did  you  watch  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  your  wusship." 

"  Did  he  accost  any  one  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  as  he  did,  your  wusship." 

"  Then  he  is  discharged.  You  have  exceeded 
your  duty,  policeman.  Be  more  careful  in 
future." 

In  his  unfortunate  hurry  to  get  out  of  the  dock 
the  outcast  dropped  the  pocket-book  which  he 
had  concealed  about  him,  and  in  his  attempt  to 
catch  it  before  it  reached  the  ground  the  watch 
appeared  in  sight.  The  policeman  pounced  upon 
him. 

"  A  pocket-book  and  a  gold  watch,  your  wus- 
ship, he  's  got  about  him.  I  knew  he  was  a 
queer  character.  I  never  exceeds  my  duty, 
saving  your  wusship's  presence." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  policeman.  Place  the 
man  in  the  dock  again.  Now,  prisoner,  I  sus- 
pect you  of  stealing  those  articles.  Where  did 
you  get  them  ? " 


THE    SCHOOL-FELLOWS.  4^ 

The  outcast  replied  not.  The  policeman 
seemed  struck  by  a  luminous  idea. 

"  A  gentleman  was  knocked  down  and  robbed 
in  Parliament  street,  last  night,  your  wusship," 
he  said  deferentially.  *'  Information  was  laid  at 
the  station  by  one  of  our  men  who  was  on  duty." 

"  Hand  me  the  pocket-book  and  watch,"  said 
the  magistrate.  On  receiving  them,  he  examined 
the  former,  and  read  the  owner's  address.  In  a 
few  minutes  the  policeman  was  on  his  way  to 

street,   Westminster.      Other   cases  were 

called  and  examined.  About  half  an  hour  had 
elapsed,  when  the  officer  of  the  law  returned, 
accompanied  by  the  plundered  man.  How  curi- 
ous an  employment  were  it  to  analyze  the  emo- 
tions of  the  thief,  as  he  devoured  every  lineament 
in  the  features  of  this  individual!  Expectation 
vividly  on  the  rack  before  he  entered,  and 
then, 

Not  a  feature  the  same.  The  youth's  visage 
had  disappeared.  The  sharp  set  lines  indicating 
the  countenance  of  the  man,  showed  too  plainly 
how  deep  the  world  had  driven  its  ploughshare 
into  the  heart  that,  as  a  boy's,  was  noble.  Each 
succeeding  furrow,  too,  deeper  than  the  last. 

The  magistrate  exhibited  the  watch  and 
pocket-book,  and  said, — 

"  Is  this  your  property,  sir  ?  " 


44  THE    SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 

"It  is,"  replied  the  other.  '^  was  knocked 
down  and  robbed  of  it  last  night." 

*'  Do  you  suppose  you  could  recognize  the 
party  who  attacked  you  ?  " 

The  plundered  man  looked  round  and  singled 
out  the  thief  immediately. 

"  There  he  is.     He  trembles,  you  see,  sir." 

The  examination  proceeded  —  the  robbery  of 
the  purse  was  stated,  and  the  purse  itself,  with 
only  a  trifle  of  its  contents  abstracted,  was  de- 
livered up  by  the  thief.  In  a  brief  space  of  time 
his  committal  to  Newgate  was  made  out.  But 
what  is  this  scene  which  takes  place  ? 

The  thief,  forcing  his  passage  from  the  dock, 
as  his  prosecutor  was  about  to  quit  the  office, 
threw  himself  at  his  feet,  and  clung  to  his  legs, 
impeding  his  further  progress. 

"  Arthur  Willis  !  "  he  cried,  "  do  you  not  know 
me,  then  ?  Has  my  name  really  escaped  your 
recollection  ?  Do  you  forget  your  old  playmate  ? 
Look  at  me — look  at  me.  I  am  he  —  I  We 
were  great  friends,  you  know,  in  our  boyhood. 
We  had  everything  we  possessed  in  common. 
You  remember  that,  do  you  not  ? " 

Thus  far  he  had  run  on  weeping,  abject,  clutch- 
ing the  other's  apparel,  when  the  man  so  ad- 
dressed, speaking  to  the  magistrate,  said, 

"  Will  you  assist  me,  sir  ?  " 


THE    SCHOOL-FELLOWS.  45 

'  Remove  him,  policeman,"  was  the  mandate 
delivered. 

"  What,  you  do  not  —  will  not  recollect  me, 

then?" 

"  Remove  him,  policeman. 
But  the  outcast  saved  them  all  further  trouhle. 
He  rose  from  the  ground.  The  prosecutor  made 
his  exit  from  the  office.  From  that  time  the 
prisoner  assumed  a  sullen  aspect,  and,  avoiding 
his  fellows  in  Newgate,  remained  apart,  sun- 
dered from  his  last  hope,  his  last  affection. 

He  was  sentenced  to  seven  years'  transporta- 
tion ;  but  underwent  his  punishment  at  the  hulks, 
instead  of  leaving  the  country.  Not  altogether 
destitute  was  he  dismissed  at  the  expiration  of 
that  long  period.  The  chaplain,  — a  man  of 
God  in  a  stricter  and  better  sense  than  a  mere 
professional  one,  — struck  by  his  history  and 
praiseworthy  behavior,  made  him  a  present  of 
five  pounds.  i\*ean while,  his  prosecutor  had 
been  ruined  by  the  failure  of  a  speculation  in 
which  he  had  extensively  embarked,  had  re- 
moved from  house  to  house,  always  going  down- 
ward in  the  scale  of  respectability  as  applied  to 
residences,  and  was  now  occupying  a  small  apart- 
ment in  an  obscure  street  in  Southwark. 

Chance  led  the  man  released  from  the  hulks 
into  this  street,  led  him  to  take  an  apartment 
therein  with  the  intention  of  carrying  on  the 


4G  THE    SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 

business  of  shoemaking,  an  employment  he  had 
been  taught  on  board  his  marine  prison.  One 
day,  as  he  sat  in  his  little  shop,  he  saw  a  man 
issue  from  the  opposite  dwelling,  and  limp  with 
faltering  steps  along  the  uneven  pavement. 
Could  it  be  ?     Had  possibility  no  limits  ? 

The  cordwainer  hammered  at  his  shoes  all  that 
day,  and  late  into  the  night,  and  the  next  day, 
and  the  next  the  same,  stringing  old  songs  to  one 
another  so  rapidly,  that  he  did  not  cease  to  croon 
and  sing  the  whole  time.     But  the  fourth  day  ? 

He  did  not  work  that  morning.  He  did  not 
sing.  It  was  beautiful  summer  weather.  A 
man  going  by  his  door  offered  flowers  for  sale. 
A  linnet  at  the  adjoining  house  went  off  into  an 
intoxicating  career  of  song.  He  bought  some 
flowers.  He  stepped  into  the  street  to  look  at 
the  linnet.  He  felt  his  eyes  moisten,  and  expe- 
rienced a  choking  sensation  at  the  throat.  Ee- 
turning  to  his  apartment,  and  making  himself  as 
tidy  as  he  could,  he  crossed  the  road,  and  knocked 
at  the  door  opposite  to  his  own. 

"  You  have  a  person  named  Willis  living 
here?"  he  said  to  the  woman  who  appeared. 

"  Yes,  what  d'ye  want  with  him?" 

*'  I  wish  to  see  him." 

"  He 's  ill,  but  you  can  go  up  stairs ;  you  can't 
miss  the  room." 

And  in  another  minute,  the  late  felon  was  in 


THE    SCHOOL-FELLOWS.  47 

the  presence  of  his  late  prosecutor,  —  the  dear 
companion  and  cherished  friend  of  his  boyhood. 
Willis  was  dying ;  it  required  no  experienced  eye 
to  see  that. 

"  Ah  !  you  know  me,  Arthur  Willis.  I  am 
Alfred  Pole ;  look  on  me ;  see  me  now,  as  in 
my  boyhood,  nothing  changed  —  but  your  dear 
friend  still ;  true  to  you  in  your  adversity,  as  he 
would  have  been  in  your  prosperity,  —  as  he  was 
when  we  were  boys  together  —  so  help  him  God 
in  heaven  ! " 

The  speaker  fell  on  his  face,  and  his  sobs 
shook  the  floor  of  the  apartment.  "  My  first 
offence,"  he  continued  presently,  "when  deprived 
of  your  counsel,  and  seduced  by  evil  companions, 
was  my  ruin.  I  think,  I  know,  that  I  should 
have  amended,  and  become  useful  in  my  limited 
sphere  to  society,  but  society  shut  me  out,  con- 
sidering that  the  boy  who  had  robbed  his  em- 
ployer, and  had  undergone  punishment  for  the 
offence,  had  better  be  cast  forth  to  be  a  thief  for 
evermore.  What  necessity  that  I  should  trace 
in  your  hearing  the  steps  by  which  I  descended, 
—  down  —  down  —  ever  and  ever  down,  until  I 
attacked  and  robbed  you." 

He  spoke  no  more  :  the  man  h«  addressed  had 
died  while  he  was  speaking,  and  a  human  soul 
was  absorbed  in  the  Infinite  Spirit. 


48 


THE    RECRUIT. 

BY     MRS.     C.     BARON     WILSON. 

Take,  take  these  flaunting  streamers  hence 
They  mock  my  pale  and  saddened  brow ; 
Remorse,  too  late,  and  'wakening  sense, 
Disclose  their  fearful  honors  now. 
In  fatal  hour,  when  jealous  pride 
Rushed,  whirlwind-like,  across  my  brain, 
Maddened  by  rage  and  wine,  I  hied 
To  join  the  wily  sergeant's  train  ! 

Mother,  farewell !  —  thy  truant  son 
No  more  his  village  home  may  see; 
Where  lives  are  lost,  or  honors  w^on. 
My  home  of  strife  henceforth  must  be. 
Farewell,  the  cottage  in  the  glade, 
That  made  my  boyhood's  earliest  home ; 
Farew^ell,  still  dear,  though  faithless  maid. 
Whose  scorn  thus  dooms  my  steps  to  roam. 

Hark  !  't  is  the  far-resounding  drum. 
And  thrillmg  fife,  whose  martial  tone 
Proclaim  the  hour  "  to  march  "  is  come, 
And  visions  of  the  past  are,  flown  ! 


THE    RECRUIT.  49 

The  notes  of  fame,  and  glory  call  — 
They  weave  around  my  heart  their  spell ; 
The  banner  waves  !  —  adieu  to  all !  — 
Home,  mother,  faithless  love  —  farewell ! 


50 


THE   SECRET. 

BY     CAMILLA     TOULMIN. 

"  Thy  heart !  —  I  would  I  could  command 
Thy  heart  to  open  on  my  sight. 
Yet  no —  I  '11  trust  those  stars  of  blue." 

Barry  Cornwall, 

PART    I. THE    MARRIAGE. 

To  the  astonishment  of  "the  world"  Sir  Percy 
Borrowdale  had  remained  for  ten  years  a  wid- 
ower, though  left  such,  and  without  children,  at 
the  age  of  five-and-twenty.  Possessed  of  a 
princely  fortune  —  tracing  his  descent  through  a 
noble  ancestry  for  five  hundred  years,  and  him- 
self more  than  commonly  handsome,  there  is  no 
wonder  that  he  was  looked  on  as  an  excellent 
"match"  among  the  fairest  and  noblest  in  the 
country.  His  first  and  very  early  marriage  had 
been  in  compliance  with  his  father's  wishes  ;  but 
though  the  chosen  bride  was  young  and  beauti- 
ful, and  though  on  her  death  every  mark  of 
respect  was  paid  to  her  memory,  Sir  Percy  never 
affected  to  be  inconsolable  for  her  loss.  And  yet 
for  ten  years  he  did  not  wed  again !  Did  he 
prefer  the  freedom  of  a  single  life  —  or  could  he 
not  find  one  of  woman-kind  tO  reach  the  standard 
of  his  fastidious  taste  ?     At  last,  when  that  bun- 


«' 


^c mm  3L,  ®  ®m.  -  ®w^. 


THE    SECRET.  51 

die  of  units  denominated  "  the  world  "  was  fairly 
at  its  wits'  end  to  account  for  his  apathy,  Sir 
Percy  astonished  it  yet  more  by  unexpectedly 
taking  a  wife  to  Castle  Borrowdale  !  There  had 
not  been  even  a  hint,  in  the  Morning  Post,  of  his 
intention  conveyed  by  initials  and  asterisks.  All 
that  appeared  one  morning  was  the  simple  an- 
nouncement of  his  nuptials  with  "Alice,  only 
child  of  the  late  Reverend  Francis  Willoughby;" 
and  the  startled  "  world  "  knew  not  at  first  in 
which  direction  to  seek  for  the  further  informa- 
tion of  who  and  what  she  was.  After  a  few  per- 
severing inquiries,  however,  people  discovered 
that  Lady  Borrowdale,  though  quite  portionless, 
belonged  to  an  old  and  respectable  family,  and 
indeed  was  once  considered  heiress  to  a  large 
property,  which  had  been  diverted  into  another 
channel,  in  consequence  of  her  father  being  un- 
able to  produce  some  necessary  documents. 

After  the  first  shock  was  over,  the  busy  world 
began  to  talk  of  the  disparity  of  their  age,  (add- 
ing a  few  years  to  the  baronet's  and  deducting 
somewhat  from  his  lady's  —  for  Alice  Willoughby 
was  really  two-and-twenty  when  she  married,) 
and  then  by  degrees  to  hint  at  a  sacrifice  made 
for  station  and  splendor.  Sir  Percy  was  very 
reserved  —  probably  morose  and  ill-tempered  at 
home,  —  so  people  said  ;  and  they  now  remem- 
bered, that  it  had  been  whispered  his  first  mar- 


52  THE    SECRET. 

riage  was  an  unhappy  one  :  no  doubt  there  were 
faults  on  both  sides  ;  but  they  dared  say  the  first 
Lady  Borrowdale  had  had  a  great  deal  to  put  up 
with.  So  much  for  the  acidity  of  the  grapes ; 
and  though,  really,  according  to  this  account, 
Alice  was  rather  to  be  pitied  than  otherwise,  still 
the  five  hundred  dear  friends  who  laid  claim  to 
a  place  on  her  visiting  list,  by  a  strange  contra- 
diction, began  weighing  her  claims  to  the  honor 
of  Sir  Percy's  hand,  as  carefully  as  if  he  had 
been  a  modern  Crichton  created  and  perfected  for 
a  pattern,  and  a  prize  unique.  Humanity  is  made 
up  of  strange  opposites  we  know,  but  according 
to  "  the  world's  "  account,  this  must  have  been 
peculiarly  the  case  in  the  instance  of  Lady  Bor- 
rowdale ;  for  every  good  quality  seemed  to  be 
attended  by  the  "jailer,  hut  yet,'^  ever  ready  to 
"usher  in  some  monstrous  malefactor."  Her 
figure  was  beautiful,  certainly,  but  —  she  wanted 
another  inch  in  height;  her  hand  was  the  most 
perfect  in  the  world,  but — .of  course  she  knew 
it,  and  wore  "  that  emerald  ring  "  to  set  it  off"; 
her  complexion  was  very  fine,  but  —  not  of  the 
kind  which  lasts  ;  she  was  considered  handsome 
certainly,  but  —  it  is  not  every  one  who  admires 
blue  eyes  and  dark  hair.  Sweet  Alice  !  the  wild 
flower  transplanted  to  the  hot-bed  of  fashionable 
life,  —  little  did  she  dream  of  the  narrow  scrutiny 
to  which  she  had  been  subject  during  her  first 


THE    SECRET. 


53 


London  season,  when,  towards  its  close.  Sir 
Percy  and  his  lady  withdrew  to  the  comparative 
retirement  of  Castle  Borrowdale. 

The  castle  was  situated  in  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  our  southern  counties,  and  within 
half  a  mile  of  the  coast.  The  spot  had  been 
chosen  by  an  ancestor  of  the  Borrowdales,  a 
distinguished  naval  officer  in  the  reign  of  Eliza- 
beth, and  the  building,  which  had  belonged  to 
some  other  family,  was  altered  and  enlarged  by 
him  in  the  quaint  fashion  of  the  period.  It  would 
seem  that  a  love  of  the  glorious  ocean  —  its 
thronging  associations  and  heart-stirring  poetry 
—  had  ever  since  distinguished  the  family.  Many 
of  its  members  had  chosen  the  navy  as  a  profes- 
sion, and  the  castle,  whose  terraces  sloped  down 
to  the  sea,  had  for  ages  been  a  favorite  residence. 
What  a  change  for  the  clergyman's  daughter, — 
from  the  country  vicarage  overgrown  with  roses 
and  honeysuckle ;  to  be  mistress  of  the  stately 
castle  I 

The  marriage  of  Alice  Willoughby  had  been 
sudden ;  for  though  known  to  her  by  name  since 
childhood,  she  met  Sir  Percy  for  the  first  time 
but  two  months  before  she  became  his  bride. 
Her  love  was  built  upon  the  strong  foundation 
of  respect  and  just  appreciation  of  her  husband's 
high  qualities ;  while  every  additional  mark  of 
tenderness  on  his  part  called  forth  the  latent 
5# 


54 


THE    SECRET. 


warmth  of  her  own  feelings.  But  it  is  quite  true 
that  Sir  Percy  was  a  reserved  man ;  his  attain- 
ments, too,  were  of  a  high  order ;  and  though 
when  first  attracted  to  Alice  he  had  felt,  by  a 
sort  of  intuition,  that  her  feminine  yet  enlarged 
mind  was  precisely  the  one  to  receive  and  mirror 
his  own  purest  and  loftiest  aspirations,  she  was 
not  equally  conscious  of  the  depth  of  her  own 
character.  The  natural  consequence  of  this  igno- 
rance was,  that  a  slight  feeling  of  awe  mingled 
with  her  true  affection  —  like  a  serpent  among 
flowers  —  and  many  a  thought  which  her  heart 
longed  to  shadow  forth  in  words,  she  repelled 
from  the  undefined  dread  that  her  simple  fancies 
must  to  him  seem  foolish. 

Yet  very  rapidly  was  this  barrier  —  icy  though 
trifling  —  melting  away;  and  even  a  few  days 
of  retirement  at  the  castle  after  their  London 
gayety  did  wonders  towards  effecting  a  change. 
Lady  Borrowdale  was  gratified  —  at  first  almost 
astonished  —  that  in  their  long  rides  and  ram- 
bles Sir  Percy  would  listen  to  her  observations 
on  the  scenes  they  visited  with  interest  and  atten- 
tion :  thus  emboldened  she  often  grew  eloquent, 
till  she  blushed  as  she  recognized  the  joy  and 
admiration  which  sparkled  in  her  husband's 
countenan.ce,  Graver  subjects  too  were  some- 
times discussed;  and  though  Sir,  Percy  smiled 
to  discover  how  often  the  simple  acuteness  of  her 


THE    SECRET.  55 

own  mind  arrived  at  the  conclusions  of  philoso- 
phers, it  was  not  the  fool's  smile  at  woman's 
wit,  but  one  of  pure  rejoicing  that  he  had  indeed 
found  "  a  help  m.eet  for  him."  Yes,  the  shadowy 
barrier  was  quickly  melting,  and  they  were 
already  the  happiest  of  the  happy. 

Lady  Borrowdale  was  passionately  fond  of  art, 
and  indeed  somewhat  skilled  in  using  the  pencil 
herself;  no  w^onder,  then,  that  a  favorite  haunt  of 
hers  was  the  picture  gallery  of  the  castle.  One 
morning  she  was  sauntering  there  while  Sir 
Percy  read  his  letters,  preparatory  to  their  pro- 
posed stroll  on  the  beach,  when  he  surprised  her 
in  a  deep  reverie  before  the  portrait  of  his  first 
wife.  The  painting  was  by  Lawrence,  and  suf- 
ficiently beautiful  to  have  arrested  the  gaze  of 
one  less  enthusiastic  than  Alice;  but  so  entranced 
was  she  that  she  did  not  hear  Sir  Percy's  ap- 
proaching footsteps,  and  was  only  aroused  by  his 
passing  an  arm  round  her  waist,  and  saying,  as 
he  drew  her  aflfectionately  towards  him,  "  Why 
is  my  Alice  so  absorbed  ? " 

She  looked  into  his  face  with  a  smile  full  of 
truth  and"  confidence,  as  she  replied,  "  I  was 
wondering  if  she  ever  were  as  dear  —  or  dearer 
to  you  than  I !  " 

"  Alice,  you  will  not  be  jealous  of  the  dead,  if 
I  own  to  you  that  I  once  loved  her  —  deeply  — 
passionately;  but  it  was  reserved  for  you,  dear* 


56  THE    SECRET. 

est,  to  realize  my  dreams,  and  make  me  su- 
premely happy." 

"  Was  she  unamiable  ? "  murmured  Alice. 

"  No.  The  secret  of  our  wretchedness  was, 
that  she  could  not  love  me." 

"Not  love  you!" 

"  Even  so.  Her  heart  was  wholly  another's  ; 
she  had  consented  to  marry  me,  at  the  earnest 
entreaty  of  her  parents,  and  in  consequence  of 
false  representations  of  her  lover's  unworthiness. 
But  within  a  month  of  our  bridal,  accident  dis- 
covered to  her  the  cruel  deception  which  had 
been  practised,  and  her  agony  was  such  that 
further  concealment,  even  if  she  attempted  it, 
proved  vain.  Thenceforth  we  were  twain,  for 
though  more  than  once  during  the  last  four 
years  of  her  life  I  tried  to  play  the  wooer,  I 
found  she  had  no  heart  to  give.  Latterly, 
indeed,  I  suspect  her  reason  gave  way,  though 
well  she  knew  if  half  my  fortune  could  have  pur- 
chased a  release  for  her,  it  should  have  been 
gained.  We  were  both  too  proud  to  take  the 
busy  world  into  our  confidence  ;  but  3'ou  cannot 
wonder  that  I  long  hesitated  in  making  a  second 
choice.  Do  you  know,  dearest,  that  1  satisfied 
myself  from  your  aunt,  who  had  been  your  com- 
panion from  childhood,  that  you  had  never  loved, 
before  I  suffered  myself  to  think  of  taking  the 
little  Wild  Rose  to  ray  heart?" 


THE    SECRET.  57 

"  Wild  Rose  "  was  one  of  the  many  pet  names 
Sir  Percy  had  bestowed  on  his  bride ;  yet  some- 
how or  other  Alice  did  not  at  that  moment  ex- 
actly like  the  application  of  it.  In  connection 
with  the  story  she  had  just  heard,  it  seemed 
painfully  to  remind  her  of  his  probable  reasons 
for  taking  a  wife  from  a  country  parsonage, 
instead  of  seeking  for  one  in  the  haunts  of  fash- 
ion. Feelings,  too,  which  will  by-and-by  be 
developed,  flashed  across  her  mind,  and  a  tear 
fell  upon  Sir  Percy's  hand  as  she  raised  it  to  her 
lips,  and  said,  in  faltering  accents,  "You  know  I 
love  you." 

He  did  not  see  her  face,  for  bonnet  and  veil 
were  on  in  readiness  for  the  promised  walk ;  but 
he  felt  the  tear,  and  chiding  himself  for  the  cause, 
he  exclaimed,  "  No  more  of  such  dismal  stories  : 
I  must  tell  you  the  letters  I  have  received  — 
there  are  several  enclosures  for  '  your  ladyship  ;' 
and  I  doubt  not  our  invitations  are  accepted. 
We  shall  have  the  castle  full  of  visitors  next 
week;  but  let  me  whisper  —  it  is  too  inhospita- 
ble a  thought  for  louder  expression  —  I  almost 
wish  these  visits  over,  that  we  may  again  be 
alone.     But  come,  you  are  ready  for  our  walk.' 

PART    II. THE  SCANDAL. 

"  I  wonder  what  our  young  hostess  can  find 
so  attractive  in  that  miserable  hut  down  by  the 


58 


THE    SECRET. 


shingles,"  was  the  exclamation  of  Lady  Maria 
Skipton,  a  spinster  of  about  thirty,  and  one  of 
the  party  at  Castle  Borrowdale. 

"  Does  she  find  it  very  attractive  ?"  replied  an 
"  Honorable  Captain,"  for  whom  Lady  Maria 
was  at  that  moment  netting  a  purse. 

"  I  suppose  so,  for  to  my  certain  knowledge 
this  is  the  third  morning  she  has  spent  the  best 
part  of  an  hour  there." 

"  The  fisherman,  Grant,  and  his  wife  are  in 
some  sort  proteges  of  Lady  Borrowdale,"  said 
Mrs.  Damer,  the  most  sensible  as  she  was  the 
most  elegant  woman  of  the  party ;  "  the  wife 
being  no  other  than  '  nurse  Margery,'  of  whom  I 
think  you  have  more  than  once  heard  our  sweet 
hostess  speak." 

"Oh!"  murmured  Lady  Maria,  sotto  voce, 
though  her  inquiring  mind  was  not  altogether 
satisfied  on  the  subject. 

In  one  of  the  drawing-room  windows  at  Castle 
Borrowdale  was  fixed  a  very  fine  telescope  ;  and 
excusing  herself  on  some  slight  pretence  from 
joining  the  rest  of  the  party,  who  were  bent  on 
riding  and  boating,  there  did  Lady  Maria  Skip- 
ton  station  herself  the  following  morning.  The 
castle  stood  on  so  great  an  acclivity  that  the  glass 
swept  the  coast  for  miles  ;  but  though  her  lady- 
ship paid  a  few  minutes'  attention  to  the  party 
in  the  boat,  she   found  nothing  satisfactory  in 


THE    SECRET.  59 

witnessing  their  quietness,  and  so  pointed  the 
glass  at  once  in  the  direction  of  the  fisherman's 
cottage.  Exemplary  was  her  patience  —  pity  it 
was  not  tested  on  a  more  praiseworthy  occasion  ! 
Once  or  twice  she  resumed  her  netting  ;  but  after 
a  few  stitches  always  rose  to  continue  her  watch. 
It  would  seem  that  her  expectations,  whatever 
they  might  be,  were  at  last  verified,  for  suddenly 
she  exclaimed  to  herself,  "  I  knew  there  was  a 
mystery!"  Then  shifting  the  telescope  very 
slightly,  she  again  peered  through  it  with  appar- 
ently increased  interest. 

It  was  evening.  The  glorious  autumn  moon 
shone  forth  in  all  its  splendor,  bathing  the  noble 
castle  and  its  princely  domains  in  a  flood  of  light. 
The  day  had  been  sultry,  and  after  dinner  some 
of  the  ladies  walked  out  on  a  beautiful  terrace, 
on  to  which  Lady  Borrowdale's  boudoir  opened. 
Distinctly  might  be  heard  the  waves  breaking  on 
the  shingles,  while  ocean  lay  gazing  "  with  its 
great  round  eye"  to  heaven  before  them.  It 
was  an  exquisite  scene  —  one  that,  where  there 
is  a  heart  to  be  touched,  must  awake  its  best 
sensibilities.  But  thus  spoke  Lady  Maria : 
"Now  my  dear  Mrs.  Damer,  don't  be  poetical, 
for  I  have  something  most  matter-of-fact  to  tell 
you.  Indeed,  I  have  been  watching  all  day  for 
an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  you,  and  now  that 
Lady   Borrowdale  and   your  sister  have    gone 


60 


THE    SECRET. 


down  to  the  lawn,  we  can  avoid  meeting  them 
for  a  few  minutes  with  ease." 

"  I  am  not  at  all  in  a  matter-of-fact  humor," 
said  Mrs.  Damer,  with  a  smile,  "  listening  to  the 
sea's  rich  music  beneath  this  glorious  sky." 

*'  Well !  but  listen  to  me.  Did  you  notice 
how  confused  Lady  Borrowdale  was  at  dinner 
to-day,  when  I  pretended  to  think  it  was  Captain 
Howard  with  whom  she  was  walking  on  the 
beach  this  morning?  He,  wuth  all  a  sailor's 
bluntness,  denied  having  had  that  honor,  of 
which  I  was  quite  aware  before  1  spoke." 

"  Now  you  mention  it,"  returned  Mrs.  Damer, 
"  I  think  she  did  color  slightly  ;  but  what  of 
that?" 

"  J  could  tell  you  a  great  deal  of  it,"  continued 
the  spinster,  "  and  I  think  I  ought  to  do  so,  since, 
though  I  dare  say  no  older  than  myself,"  (Mrs. 
Damer  was  five  years  her  junior,)  "  you  are  the 
only  married  lady  here." 

"Good  heavens!  Lady -Maria,  what  do  you 
mean?" 

"  Listen  !  I  saw  Lady  Borrowdale  walking 
with  a  stranger  in  the  garden  behind  the  fisher- 
man's cottage,  and  I  am  certain,  from  the  man- 
ner in  which  she  raised  her  handkerchief  to  her 
face,  that  she  was  in  tears;  there  was  an  infant, 
too,  brought  out  by  the  fisherman's  wife,  which 
she  took  in  her  arms  and  fondled." 


THE    SECRET.  61 

"  Most  probably  it  was  the  child  of  her  old 
servant,"  replied  Mrs.  Damer ;  "  I  see  nothing 
wonderful  in  that." 

''  No  such  thing ;  Margery  Grant  has  no  chil- 
dren of  her  own." 

"  At  all  events,  it  does  not  concern  us,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Damer,  apparently  quite  relieved  at 
finding  that  the  communication  was  nothing  more 
dreadful. 

"  But  I  think  it  does,"  returned  the  pertina- 
cious lady  —  "I  have  a  great  regard  for  Sir 
Percy,"  (rumor  said  Lady  Maria  had  a  few 
years  before  set  her  cap  very  desperately  at  the 
baronet,)  "  in  my  opinion  he  has  made  a  very 
imprudent  marriage,  and  I  should  not  be  a  bit 
surprised  if  his  parvenue  wife,  chit  as  she  is, 
proves  no  better  than  she  should  be  ! " 

"  Hush  !  hush  ! "  said  Mrs.  Damer,  "  I  cannot 
listen  to  such  slander.  Lady  Borrowdale  is  our 
hostess  —  a  gentlewoman  in  everythmg ;  and,  1 
would  stake  my  own  character,  pure  in  heart 
and  conduct.  Lady  Maria,  no  more  of  this,  we 
had  better  return  to  the  drawing-room." 

A  wonderful  interest  Lady  Maria  Skipton 
must  have  taken  in  all  the  outward-bound  ves- 
sels, for  she  really  spent  a  large  portion  of  her 
mornings  at  the  telescope  —  watching  the  ship- 
ping, we  suppose.  How  learnedly  she  talked,  too, 
of —  schooners,  —  brigs,  —  barks,  —  and  three- 
6 


fe^':. 


62 


THE    SECRET. 


deckers, — according  to  the  various  classifications 
of  the  genus  "ship."  Whether  she  received  it 
or  not,  she  certainly  might  have  earned  the  com- 
pliment we  heard  paid  to  a  dear  friend  of  ours 
by  a  rough  old  sailor  on  his  witnessing  her  nau- 
tical acumen  and  enthusiasm,  "  Bless  your  bright 
eyes,  you  deserve  to  be  an  admiral's  lady  !"  —  a 
dignity,  which  was,  no  doubt,  in  his  estimation, 
the  most  enviable  which  could  fall  to  the  lot  of 
womankind.  Yet  thrice,  when  all  the  rest  of 
the  party  were  absent.  Lady  Maria  suddenly 
required  Sir  Percy's  aid  in  the  arrangement  of 
the  glass  —  the  last  time,  however,  was  fatal  to 
her  future  pleasure,  for  after  using  it  for  some 
time  with  a  sort  of  painful  interest,  he  took  the 
telescope  to  pieces  without  a  previous  word  of 
his  intention,  and  actually  put  a  lens  in  his  pocket 
on  the  plea  that  there  was  a  flaw  in  it ! 

But  let  us  take  a  peep  at  the  fisherman's  cot- 
tage, and  listen  to  a  conversation  of  which  Lady 
Maria  with  all  her  diligence  was  unable  to  gather 
the  purport.  Seated  on  a  rustic  bench  was  Lady 
Borrowdale,  evidently  in  tears,  while  near  her, 
in  deep  mourning,  stood  a  handsome  gentleman- 
like man  of  about  thirty :  he  had  been  speaking 
with  some  earnestness,  when  Lady  Borrowdale 
replied,  "  The  struggle  of  the  last  week  has  been 
almost  beyond  my  strength,  both  of  mind  and 
body.     Oh  !  George,  why  did  I  not  at  first  make 


THE    SECRET. 


63 


my  kind,  generous  husband  your  friend,  instead 
of  meeting  you  thus  by  stealth,  teaching  these 
poor  people  a  lesson  of  deception,  and  forfeiting 
my  own  self-esteem  ?  " 

"  Because,  Alice,  my  sister  !  you  had  not  cour- 
age to  spurn  the  outcast  and  prodigal,  when  in 
the  depth  of  his  affliction  he  threw  himself  be- 
fore you.  The  old  leaven  is  in  me,"  he  con- 
tinued, stamping  with  violence :  "  I  will  not  show 
myself  as  a  beggar  to  your  haughty  husband. 
And  I  am  worse  than  a  beggar,  the  imputation 
of  dishonor  clings  to  me  till  I  can  prove  my  inno- 
cence." 

"  You  forget,"  said  Alice  tenderly,  and  laying 
her  hand  on  his  arm,  "  that  it  is  only  your  gen- 
erosity to  me  which  prevents  your  character 
being  cleared  immediately.  Oh,  those  foolish  — 
foolilh  letters!— yet,  George,  you  know  it  was 
a  silly,  girlish  fancy,  and  that  I  never  loved  him, 
nay  that  I  was  the  one  to  break  off  our  childish 
engagement." 

"  Fool  that  I  was,  after  recovering  them,  to 
keep  them ! "  cried  the  stranger ;  "  yet  greater 
was  the  folly  in  placing  them  in  the  iron  chest. 
I  dare  not  return  to  open  it  myself— and  for 
your  sake,  Alice,  I  will  not  send  another.  Say, 
would  you  rather  delay  for  years,  perhaps  fail 
ahogether,  in  the  recovery  of  your  father's  rights, 
than  suffer  your  husband  to  know  — since  his 


64  THE    SECRET. 

prejudices  are  so  strong  —  of  your  former  en- 
gagement to ? " 

"  Oh  !  much  rather." 

Without  another  word,  George  Rushbrook 
walked  a  few  steps  to  the  beach,  and  flung  a  key 
into  the  ocean ;  then  murmuring,  "  You  will  not 
let  my  little  Alice  want,"  he  moved  away. 

PART    III. THE    KEY. 

"Very  sudden  Lady  Borrowdale's  illness!" 
exclaimed  Lady  Maria  Skipton,  a  few  hours 
after  the  events  of  the  last  chapter. 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Darner,  "  for 
she  has  been  looking  wretchedly  ill  the  last  four 
or  five  days." 

"  Do  you  think  we  ought  to  continue  our 
visit  ? "  returned  Lady  Maria. 

"Sir  Percy  seems  anxiously  to  wish  it;  for 
though  distracted  at  Lady  Borrowdale's  illness, 
he  told  me  he  had  urgent  reasons  for  desiring 
that  the  party  should  not  be  broken  up." 

It  was  quite  true  that  Lady  Borrowdale's 
frame  had  sunk  beneath  the  strong  mental  ex- 
citement she  had  undergone.  One  fainting  fit 
followed  another  —  medical  attendants  were 
called  in,  and  Sir  Percy  hung  over  his  idolized 
Alice,  in  a  state  of  mind  bordering  on  distrac- 
tion ;  for  many  were  the  wild  and  crowding  fears 
which  increased  his  agony.     Towards  evening 


THE    SECRET.  65 

she  grew  more  composed,  and  fell  into  a  light 
slumber,  Sir  Percy  alone  keeping  watch  beside 
her.  Many  broken  exclamations  of  affection 
escaped  her ;  and  when  he  took  her  hand  in  his, 
though  still  without  disturbing  her,  she  grasped 
it  warmly.  When  she  did  awake  she  looked  up 
fondly  as  she  said, 

"Have  I  been  talking,  Percy  —  and  what 
about  ? " 

"  Nothing,  dearest,  but  that  which  made  me 
happy  to  hear." 

"  Oh,  but  I  have  a  secret  —  I  must  tell  you  — 
even  though  you  should  not  forgive  me  —  and 
yet  it  is  not  my  fault  —  I  did  not  deceive  you. 
Yes,  I  can  tell  you  now  that  we  are  again  alone 
—  now  those  people  are  gone." 

"  No  one  is  gone,  Alice." 

"  No  !  then  I  dreamed  they  were ;  but  I  will 
tell  you  —  now  at  once  —  give  me  your  hand, 
feel  how  my  heart  beats." 

"  You  must  have  rest  and  quiet,  you  must  not 
speak,  dearest.  Your  husband  has  faith  hi  yo7i, 
and  believes  that  you  have  nothing  to  tell  him 
which  he  can  blush  to  hear." 

"  Bless  you  for  your  faith  !"  and  she  turned 
on  her  pillow  and  was  silent  —  though  now  she 
was  relieved  by  tears. 

It  was  the  following  morning.  The  invalid 
had  been  removed  to  her  boudoir,  and  reclined 
6=^ 


66 


THE    SECRET. 


on  a  couch ;   Sir  Percy  was  seated  by  her  side, 
his  hand  again  in  hers. 

"  You  remember  my  telling  you  of  my  half- 
brother,"  said  Lady  Borrowdale,  "  and  relating 
to  you  that  I  had  not  seen  him  for  three  years ; 
although  I  had  heard  of  his  marriage  with  one 
far  beneath  him  in  station  ?  " 
"  Perfectly." 

"  His  was  always  a  complicated  character,  wild 
and  impetuous  in  action,  constant  but  in  one 
thing,  —  his  affection  to  me.  He  was  brought 
up  to  the  law,  and  long  ago  became  convinced 
that  the  certificates  requisite   to  establish    my 

father's  claim  to  the  estate  of  S were  to  be 

obtained.    He  devoted,  I  know,  much  time  to  the 
investigation  of  our  claims,  but  only  within  this 
week  have  I  heard  hew  successful  he  has  been." 
"  Then  it  was  your  brother  with  whom  I  saw 
you  yesterday  ? "  interrupted  Sir  Percy. 
"  You  saw  me  !  and  did  not  scorn  me  ! " 
"  Alice,  I  had  faith  —  though,  that  you  should 
have  a  secret  pained  me." 

"  But  George,  from  a  choice  of  unworthy  asso- 
ciates, has  become  charged  with  a  share  in  a 
nefarious  money  transaction  now  occupying  the 

attention  of  the  public,  though  he  assures  me 

and  oh !  I  know  that  whatever  his  faults,  he  is 
not  dishonorable  —  that  documents  in  which  he 
repudiates   his   partner's  intentions  are   in   the 


THE    SECRET.  67 

same  iron  chest  which  contains  the  certificates. 
But  he  dares  not  show  himself  in  London  till 
proofs  are  established ;  and  he  was  on  his  way 
to  France,  intending  thence  to  send  a  confiden- 
tial agent  with  his  keys,  when  the  accident  of 
the  nurse  who  attended  his  motherless  child 
refusing  to  accompany  him  further,  brought  to 
mind  the  fact  that  our  old  servant  Margery  was 
settled  in  the  neighborhood.  He  placed  his  infant 
in  her  hands  with  confidence,  intrusting  a  mes- 
sage to  me,  for  he  was  too  proud  to  present  him- 
self at  the  castle  in  poverty  and  disgrace.  It  was 
by  accident  we  met  at  the  cottage,  and  —  and  — 
if  it  had  been  a  fortnight  ago,  when  we  were 
alone  —  or  before  you  told  me  the  story  of  the 
first  Lady  Borrowdale  —  indeed,  Percy,  I  could 
never  have  kept  the  secret ;  but  —  oh  !  I  have 
more,  much  more !" 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door. 
A  servant  entered  :  "  My  Lady  —  dame  Margery 
Grant  begs  to  be  admitted  —  having  something, 
she  desires  me  to  say,  very  urgent  to  communi- 
cate." 

"  Admit  her,"  said  Lady  Borrowdale,  casting 
an  appealing  look  to  her  husband.  "  What  hap- 
piness," she  added,  "  that  whether  good  or  evil, 
her  tidings  may  be  delivered  in  your  presence  !  " 

Margery's  handsome  face  sparkled  with  joyful 
astonishment,  as  Lady  Borrowdale  bade  her  say 


68  THE    SECRET. 

everything  she  had  to  say  in  the  presence  of  Sir 
Percy. 

"  Dear  Miss  Alice  —  I  mean  '  my  lady,'"  said 
the  affectionate  creature,  "  it  does  my  heart  good 
to  find  the  secret 's  out,  whatever  it  was  about. 
Of  course,  as  I  said  to  my  good  man,  it  was  our 
bounden  duty  to  keep  it  safe  —  and  being  two  of 
us,  you  see,  to  talk  about  it  together,  it  was  n't 
so  difficult  —  as  it  was  your  ladyship's  wish,  and 
poor  Mr.  George  —  though  he  was  before  my 
service  in  the  family  —  was  in  trouble  of  some 
kind  or  another  —  and  the  dear  baby  took  to  me 
so  from  the  first  —  " 

But  the  anxious  Alice  interrupted  Margery  by 
exclaiming,  "  My  brother  !  —  has  he  heard  of  my 
illness  —  did  he  send  you?" 

"  Alas  !  Miss  —  my  lady,  we  have  not  seen 
him  this  morning.  He  must  have  left  the  cot- 
tage at  a  very  early  hour,  nor  somehow,  from 
what  he  said  last  night,  do  I  think  he  w^ill  return. 
My  good  man  fancies  he  must  have  been  taken 
up  by  one  of  the  foreign  steamers  which  he  made 
out  with  his  glass.  But  what  I  made  bold  to 
come  up  to  the  castle  about  was  the  key  —  I  am 
sure  it  is  the  identical  one  he  threw  into  the 
water  yesterday,  and  behold,  by  the  wisdom  of 
Providence,  the  tide  last  night  left  it  within  five 
yards  of  the  cottage  !  I  was  sure,  my  lady,  you 
valued  the  key  —  so  here  it  is." 


THE    SECRET.  69 

"  And  now,  dearest,  what  are  we  to  do  with 
this  mysterious  key,"  said  Sir  Percy,  when  once 
more  they  were  alone ;  "  shall  it  be  sealed  up 
until  you  hear  some  account  of  your  brother  ? " 

"No!"  said  Lady  Borrowdale,  half  rising 
from  her  couch,  as  if  with  her  firm  resolution 
she  had  recovered  health  and  strength.  "  No, 
you  alone  have  the  right  to  open  that  chest,  for 
there  are  papers  in  it  which  concern  me.  All  I 
ask— and  I  would  sue  for  your  compliance  on 
my  knees  —  is  that  I  may  be  by  your  side.  It 
must  be  immediately,  for  I  can  know  no  peace 
till  it  is  over  —  why  not  to-night  —  by  rail-road 

—  for  the  chest  is  imbedded  in  the  wall  —  a 
secret  panel  —  and  we  must  go  to  it ! " 

"  Good  heavens,  Alice  ! "  exclaimed  Sir  Percy, 
trembling  and  turning  pale  with  emotion,  "  there 
must  be  some  dreadful  mystery  —  do  I  guess  the 
fearful  riddle?  —  my  fatal  doom! — you  have 
loved  before  —  and  there  are  letters  ! "  — 

u]N^o  —  no  —  not  loved  —  believe  me,  never! 

—  never,"  cried  Alice,  sinking  on  her  knees,  and 
twining  her  arms  round  her  husband.  "  I  was 
engaged  to  one  who  was  unworthy — but  I  awoke 
from  the  delusion  —  I  was  the  one  to  break  off 
our  intercourse  —  your  wife  was  not  cast  off  by 
another  !  —  Hear  me  !  —  look  at  me  !  or  I  shall 
lose  my  reason,"  continued  Lady  Borrowdale, 
while  she  succeeded  in  removing  Sir  Percy's 


70 


THE    SECRET. 


hands  from  the  death-like  countenance  which  he 
had  buried  in  them.  "  Hear  me,  even  at  this 
moment  of  agony,  offer  up  thanksgiving  that  I 
am  your  wife  —  that  I  dare  and  can  tell,  and 
prove  to  you,  liow  wholly  I  am  yours.  Had  you 
questioned  me  before  our  marriage,  I  should 
have  told  you  the  truth ;  but  I  could  not  have 
urged  it  passionately  as  I  do  now.  I  should 
have  lost  you  I  Percy  !  —  Percy,  hear  me  — 
answer  me,  one  word  of  love  —  of  the  faith  you 
had  in  me  yesterday  !  " 

And  it  was  spoken  from  the  heart  at  last! 
But  who  shall  tell  how  fierce  that  momentary 
struggle  had  been  between  love  and  reason  on 
one  side  as  they  encountered  an  opinion,  hard- 
ened by  fifteen  years  of  prejudice  into  a  master 
sentiment ! 

"  At  least  you  will  read  the  letter  in  which  I 
broke  off  the  engagement,"  murmured  Alice,  as 
her  head  leaned  on  Sir  Percy's  shoulder. 

"  Nay,  nay,  dearest,  let  them  all  be  burnt  and 
forgotten." 

"  But  if  I  ask  it  —  if  I  wish  it  —  it  was  for  this 
I  desired  to  be  with  you  —  that  you  might  read 
that  first.  But  think,  if  your  little  Alice  comes 
into  five  thousand  a-year,  though  dearly  has  it 
been  purchased  —  what  shall  you  do  with  it?" 

"  Settle  your  wild  brother,  who  seems  hitherto 
to   have    been    the   foot-ball    of  fortune       And 


THE    SECRET.  71 

whether  or  not  we  must  take  care  of  your  little 
namesake  ! " 

"  And  our  visitors,"  returned  Lady  Borrow- 
dale,  —  "  surely  some  of  them  were  to  have  left 
us  to-day  ?" 

"  I  besought  Lady  Maria  to  remain  till  the  end 
of  the  week.  I  would  not  have  had  her  leave 
while  we  were  twain" 

"  But  we  are  one  now  and  forever  !  " 


A  year  passed  away,  working  its  mighty 
changes  !  Once  again  Lady  Maria  Skipton  was 
a  guest  at  Castle  Borrowdale,  and  with  one  or 
two  additions  the  party  w^as  the  same  as  before. 

"  I  think  Lady  Borrowdale  has  grown  very 
haughty,"  said  Lady  Maria,  "  since  she  came 
into  her  own  fortune." 

"  I  do  not  fancy  that  has  had  anything  to  do 
with  the  change,"  replied  Mrs.  Damer. 

"No!  what  then?" 

"  I  think  she  is  a  little  more  dignified,  from 
being  more  conscious  of  her  own  just  position  in 
society." 

"  Yet  Sir  Percy  is  much  less  reserved,  1 
think." 

"  Just  as  it  ought  to  be,"  returned  Mrs.  Damer; 
"  she  has  ascended  — he  has  descended  a  step  or 
two ;  so  now  they  stand  upon  a  level." 


72  THE    SECRET. 

"  A  gentleman-like  person  her  brother !" 

"  Very." 

"  Fortunate  in  obtaining  so  fine  a  situation 
under  government."     ' 

"  Very." 

"  \Vhat  a  romantic  affair  that  was  last  year, 
about  Lady  Borrowdale  meeting  him  and  arrang- 
ing all  about  the  recovery  of  her  property  before 
Sir  Percy  knew  a  word  of  the  affair." 

"  Was  that  the  case  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Darner. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  my  maid  heard  it  from  one,  whose 
cousin's  wife's  sister  was  a  fellow-servant  for 
three  years  with  Margery  Grant." 

Fortunate  it  is,  that  the  Lady  Marias  of  the 
world  sometimes  beat  out  a  grain  of  truth  to  a 
good  instead  of  an  evil  purpose  ! 


73 


SONNET. 

BY     JOSEPH     FEARN. 

Lead  me  —  oh  I  lead  me  to  those  sparkling  groves 
Where  every  sight  is  beauty  —  every  sound 
Is  love  —  where  sunbeams  tip  the  trees  around 
With  gold  —  or  starlight  through  their  foliage 

roves, 
And  I  will  muse  on  pleasure  —  as  a  dream 
Of  lands  where  marble  palaces  do  shine, 
And  radiant  forms  on  verdant  banks  recline, 
Till  all  the  senses  of  my  frame  shall  seem 
To  pass  into  a  rich  Elysium  bright ! 
As  though  a  spirit  from  some  mountain  height 
Had  plucked  undying  roses  for  a  wreath 
To  bind  fair  brows  withal  who  sleep  beneath ; 
Then  lead  !  oh,  lead  me  to  those  sparkling  groves 
Where  sunlight  wanders,  and  where  starlight 

roves. 

7 


74 


KATE  OF   KILDARE: 

A   WIFE'S   TRIALS  AND   TRIUMPHS. 

BY     MARY     LEMAN     GILLIES. 

In  a  sequestered  spot  near  Kildare  rose  a  ram- 
bling pile  of  buildings,  which  had  in  times  past 
possessed  some  importance  as  the  abode  of  a 
wealthy  squire ;  but  falling,  like  the  family,  into 
decay,  it  had  been  successively  consigned  to 
humbler  and  humbler  tenants,  till  eventually 
George  Dighton  opened  it  as  an  inn.  Hither 
he  brought  his  wife  and  little  girl,  Kate,  their 
only  surviving  child.  Severe  trials,  acting  on 
constitutional  delicacy,  had  shaken  the  mother's 
health,  but  through  years  of  decline  the  placid 
energies  of  a  thoughtful  pious  mind  sustained 
her,  till  just  as  Kate  had  attained  her  tenth  year 
the  struggle  closed  amid  duties  unremittingly 
fulfilled,  and  Mrs.  Dighton  was  committed  to  the 
grave  with  regret  from  all,  and  grief  to  her  hus- 
band and  child  of  no  common  bitterness.  Her 
peculiar  character  had  breathed  upon  their  exis- 
tence a  charm,  of  which,  while  loving  her  devo- 
tedly, they  had  nevertheless  been  little  conscious, 
till  they  felt  the  blank  desolation  to  which  be- 
reavement left  them.     They  had  lived  in  the 


KATE    OF    KILDARE.  75 

perpetual  presence  of  her  serene  cheerfulness 
and  provident  care  for  their  comfort,  as  do  the 
dwellers  in  fine  air,  who,  full  of  light  spirits  and 
placidity  of  mind,  neither  know  nor  inquire  their 
source,  till  transferred  to  a  heavy  atmosphere  and 
dim  horizon,  their  oppressed  nature  pleads  against 
the  change,  and  they  learn  what  they  have  lost. 
The  care  and  tenderness  of  her  father  cher- 
ished and  developed  the  fine  nature  Kate  inher- 
ited from  her  mother.  Education  at  ihe  period 
of  which  we  write  was  of  small  account,  espe- 
cially in  the  class  and  country  in  which  she  was 
placed ;  but  Kate  was  taught  to  read  and  write, 
was  well  skilled  with  her  needle,  and  the  neatest 
dancer  that  ever  stepped.  She  had  ripened  into 
a  beautiful  creature,  and  reached  her  sixteenth 
year,  when  her  father  formed  a  second  marriage. 
Her  step-mother  brought  with  her  a  son,  a  fine, 
dark,  athletic  youth,  who  had  just  completed  his 
majority.  Robert  Horrey  achieved  what  many 
had  essayed  in  vain  —  he  won  the  heart  of  Kate 
Dighton ;  the  parental  sanction  was  not  with- 
held, and  all  seemed  to  promise  that  "  the  course 
of  true  love  "  would,  in  their  case,  "  run  smooth." 
Suddenly,  however,  a  quarrel  occurred  between 
the  mother  and  son,  in  which  Mr.  Dighton  took 
part  with  his  wife ;  thus  the  domestic  peace,  of 
late  so  perfect,  was  broken,  and  the  hopes  that 
grew  out  of  it  marred. 


76  KATE    OF    KILDARE. 

Late  in  the  evening  of  that  stormy  day,  a 
young-  creature  of  agile  movement  might  have 
been  seen  gliding  about  the  outbuildings,  looking 
forth  into  the  deepening  twilight,  now  from  this 
door,  now  from  that.  The  moon  seemed  toiling 
through  masses  of  heavy  vapor,  but  at  intervals 
gleamed  forth  upon  the  fair  anxious  face  of  Kate, 
for  she  was  the  watcher ;  at  length  she  descried 
an  approaching  form,  heard  a  well-known  step, 
and  then  a  low-toned  voice,  which  said  —  "Be 
not  afraid,  'tis  I."  The  speaker  drew  her  arm 
within  his,  and  they  passed  into  an  adjoining 
coppice. 

Each  had  sought  the  interview  confident  of 
power.  Kate  of  the  power  to  soothe  and  recon- 
cile ;  her  lover  to  win  her  and  bear  her  away. 
The  gentle  girl  was  no  match  for  the  self-willed, 
impetuous  being  resolved  on  her  possession.  In 
vain  she  covmselled  submission  to  his  own  parent, 
and  forbearance  regarding  hers.  The  liliul  duty 
with  which  her  breast  was  filled  found  no  place 
in  his. 

"  Kate,"  he  exclaimed,  "  my  mind  is  made  up. 
I  go  hence  to-night ;  hoio  I  go  depends  on  yoiiy 

"Oh,  Robert,  dear,  what  is  it  you  mean?" 

"What  is  it  1  mean?"  he  repeated  with  fer- 
vor; "why,  that  you  must  go  with  me.  If  I 
leave  you  here,  surrounded  as  you  are,  I  lose 
you  —  if  I  lose  you  I  care  not  what  becomes  of 


KATE    OF    KILDARE.  77 

me.  Hear  me  —  trust  to  me  —  I  have  planned 
and  prepared  all.  I  have  friends  to  aid  —  a 
priest  to  unite  us ;  the  car  waits  to  carry  us  to 
him,  and  thence  to  Dublin,  whence  in  the  morn- 
ing we  may  embark  for  England  or  America." 

Pale,  motionless,  almost  breathless  as  a  statue, 
she  stood  and  listened  to  him ;  at  length  she  ex- 
claimed — "  Robert,  Robert,  what  madness  is 
this  ?  Do  you  think  I  can  so  leave  my  father  — 
leave  him  in  his  old  age  ?  " 

uj  ggg  —  I  see,"  he  impatiently  exclaimed, 
moving  proudly  aside,  "  I  have  deceived  myself. 
You  care  not  what  becomes  of  me.  You  can  at 
such  a  time  as  this  coldly  abandon  me !  Your 
father  —  he  is  not  alone  and  abused  —  /  am. 
Your  father  —  he  has  friends,  a  wife,  a  home  — 
I  have  none  of  these.  /  am  deserted,  insulted, 
forsaken." 

His  tones  searched  her  heart.  She  sprung  to 
him,  and  caught  his  arm  with  convulsive  energy ; 
she  could  not  speak,  but  her  silence  was  eloquent 
of  tenderness. 

"  At  least,"  he  said,  returning  to  the  gentle- 
ness of  entreaty  —  "  at  least,  consent  to  be  mine 
—  give  me,  ere  I  go,  the  certainty  that  no  other 
shall  possess  you." 

His  persuasive  impetuosity  prevailed.    A  little 
while,  and  Kate  was  seated  by  his  side  on  a  car, 
followed  by  three  or  four  of  his  friends  on  horse- 
7# 


78  KATE    OF    KILDAKE. 

back,  for  if  a  rescue  Avere  attempted  he  was 
resolved  upon  a  desperate  resistance.  Before 
midnight  they  alighted  at  the  obscure  dwelling 
of  the  priest,  situated  in  a  lonely  glen,  and  there, 
surrounded  by  strangers,  the  pale  and  trembling 
girl  became  the  bride  of  Robert  Horrey. 

♦'  Now,"  she  whispered,  as  soon  as  the  cere- 
mony was  over,  and  she  bowed  her  head  upon 
her  husband's  bosom,  "  let  us  away  —  restore  me 
to  my  father's  roof  before  morning  —  let  us  not 
lose  a  moment." 

Kobtrt  made  no  reply.  Nothing  was  further 
from  his  purpose  than  to  part  Avith  her  again. 
He  wrapped  her  mantle  round  her,  held  a  cup  to 
her  lips  of  which  he  made  her  drink,  lifted  her 
into  the  car,  and  resuming  his  place  by  her  side, 
they  drove  rnpidly  away,  she  knew  not  whither. 
To  be  brief,  the  morning  found  them  in  Dublin, 
and  Kate  convinced  that  every  other  tie  was  sev- 
ered, and  her  fate  forever  linked  with  Robert's. 
She  wrote  to  her  father,  not  to  criminate  her 
husband  and  excuse  herself,  but  to  ask  forgive- 
ness for  both.  This  was  the  first  step  on  the 
path  of  sacrifice  on  which  she  had  entered.  Her 
fiither's  reply  reached  her  just  as  she  was  em- 
barking for  Holyhead.  His  letter  breathed  par- 
don, prayer,  and  blessing,  and  wetted  with  her 
tears  she  refolded  it,  and  placed  it  in  her  bosom 


i^ 


KATE    OF    KILDARE.  79 

with  a  sweet  superstition  that  it  held  a  charm 
against  every  ill. 

It  is  not  in  a  sketch  like  this  that  the  eventful 
life  of  Kate  can  be  followed  out  in  detail.  Her 
constituent  characteristics  were  energy  of  mind, 
and  tenderness  and  firmness  of  affection.  She 
loved  her  husband  with  perfect  devotion,  and 
notwithstanding  many  dark  shades  in  his  char- 
acter, he  had  some  fine  qualities  to  attach  her. 
Unfortunately  one  of  those  clever  fellows  who 
might  be  anything,  he  was  really  nothing,  or, 
what  is  equivalent,  "  Everything  by  turns  and 
nothing  long."  His  great  passion  had  been  for 
horses,  and  he  inherited  a  few  hundred  pounds ; 
this  money  had  been  the  source  of  his  quarrel 
with  his  mother,  who  desired  its  appropriation, 
in  part  at  least,  to  the  liquidation  of  debts  for 
which  she  had  in  some  measure  become  respon- 
sible. But  he  was  more  disposed  to  go  forward 
on  the  path  of  apparent  advantage  than  to  tarry 
or  turn  back  to  acknowledge  or  repay  past  bene- 
fits. Perhaps  he  appeased  his  conscience  by 
deeming  this  only  a  postponement,  and  promised 
himself  that  a  time  should  arrive,  when,  fortune 
being  realized,  he  should  become  just,  and  even 
grateful ;  but  that  till  then,  under  the  pressure  of 
his  peculiar  circumstances,  he  might  give  up 
principle  for  expediency,  and  grasp  at  everything 
that  promised  self-advantage.     We  shall  see  the 


so  KATE    OF    KILDAKE. 

wisdom  of  his  philosophy.  His  means  of  living 
gradually  settled  into  that  of  an  agent  for  the 
sale  and  purchase  of  horses,  and  the  employ- 
ments which  are  contingent  upon  and  incident  to 
such  a  path.  But  circumstances  rose  out  of  it 
of  a  dangerous  tendency  to  a  mind  so  lax,  and  a 
temper  so  impetuous  —  it  introduced  him  to 
society  above  his  grade  of  fortune,  and  as  defi- 
cient in  moral  principle  :  the  seductive  influence 
of  c"ambling  was  at  work ;  betting  transactions, 
now  fortunate,  flattered  him  with  unexpected 
success — now  the  reverse,  plunged  him  into 
embarrassment.  The  ready  refuge  of  the  unre- 
flecting, or  those  who  dare  not  reflect,  vvas  at 
hand,  and  the  glass,  which  a  genial  nature  might 
have  taught  him  to  lift  as  a  stimulus  to  friendly 
communion  merely,  was  often  snatched  to  drown 
the  gnawing  consciousness  of  past  error  or  ap- 
proaching ruin. 

During  all  this  tim.e  Kate  had  a  large  share  of 
aflliction.  Her  husband,  of  a  jealous  temper, 
and  surrounded  by  promiscuous  and  questionable 
associates,  anxiously  secluded  her  in  a  remote 
suburban  residence:  with  all  his  faults  he  loved 
her  ardently,  and  respect-d  in  her  the  virtues  he 
failed  to  act  up  to  himself;  ill,  therefore,  could 
he  bear  to  expose  her  to  the  temptation  and  dete- 
rioration which  were  rife  around  him.  But 
amid  the  storms  of  the  life  he  led,  she  vvas  often 


KATE    OF    KILDARE.  81 

forgotten,  left  to  endure  solitude,  sometimes  pri- 
vation. The  irregular  and  extravagant  man's 
home  is  in  general  the  first  sacrifice ;  legitimate 
claims  are  postponed  in  favor  of  the  illicit  de- 
mands which  laill  be  heard,  and  for  which  the 
criminal  claimants  know  so  well  how  to  force 
attention  from  the  hopes  and  fears  of  the  weak 
and  wicked  defaulter.  Periods  of  deep  sorrow 
had,  nevertheless,  ever  brought  Robert  to  his 
wife  ;  the  death  of  her  father,  the  successive  loss 
of  three  children  in  their  infancy,  and  the  occa- 
sional illness  of  their  first-born,  who,  though 
inheriting  that  fatal  malady,  consumption,  had 
survived  —  had  always  found  him  a  ready  and 
tender  sympathizer.  Still,  except  in  great  emer- 
gencies, Kate  was  alone.  What  floods  of  thought 
and  feeling  swept  through  her  soul  as  she  sat 
beside  the  bed  or  chair  of  her  drooping  girl, 
reviewing  the  sudden  wrench  by  which  she  had 
herself  been  torn  from  every  prop  her  childhood 
and  youth  had  known,  to  be  surrounded  by  cir- 
cumstances of  struggle  and  difficulty.  It  had 
been  like  taking  the  swan  from  the  sequestered 
lake  and  giving  to  it  the  course  of  the  sea-bird. 
Hov/  will  it  bear  the  alternation  of  sunshine  and 
storm,  and  preserve  its  pristine  beauty  in  both  — 
how  adapt  its  wing  to  its  devious  way  ?  Kate 
yielded  eminent  proof  of  the  wonderful  elasticity 
seated  in  a  spirit  of  large  capacity  and  strong 


82  KATE    OF    KILDARE. 

affection.  Well  was  it  for  her  that  she  was  one 
of  those  whom  the  severe  atmosphere  of  adver- 
sity braced  with  strength,  for  how  did  the  ter- 
mination of  the  twelfth  year  of  her  wedded  life 
find  her?  Alone  —  in  destitution  —  and  worse 
than  widowed  !  Her  misguided  husband  had 
fallen  into  the  toils  ;  tried  and  convicted  of  horse- 
stealing, he  was  transported  for  life  to  Van  Die- 
man's  Land. 

We  will  not  pause  to  dilate  on  Kate's  sutiering 
and  heroism  :  how  she  stifled  the  agonies  of  her 
own  spirit,  and  endeavored  to  call  up  hope  in  his 
heart,  while  it  died  in  her  own.  When  all  was 
over  —  when  she  had  seen  him  for  the  last  time 
—  she  returned  home,  and  casting  herself  upon 
her  knees,  she  poured  forth  her  spirit,  but  in  no 
selfish  supplications.  She  prayed  for  him  who 
was  soon  to  be  upon  the  wild  waters,  to  pass,  a 
branded  outcast,  to  an  allotment,  the  stringency 
of  which  she  could  not  know,  but  which  her 
imagination  clothed  in  the  darkest  colors :  she 
prayed  for  the  innocent  sufferer  lying  before  her 
in  feverish  and  fitful  sleep  —  and  for  herself, 
what  did  she  ask  ?  For  strength  to  do  her  duties. 
Life  for  her  child,  reunion  with  her  husband  — 
these  were  the  boons  she  implored  ;  and  that 
power  might  be  given  her  to  assist  the  healing 
of  the  one,  and  to  work  out  the  redemption  of 
the  other.     She  rose  full  of  pious  confidence  and 


KATE    OF    KILDARE.  83 

patient  courage.  Her  first  care  now  was  to  gain 
some  employment  that  would  afford  them  bread ; 
by  her  needle  and  laundry  work  she  effected 
this,  but  only  in  a  partial  and  uncertain  way, 
intervals  of  compelled  inaction  at  times  con- 
signed her  to  the  severest  want. 

She  had  struggled  through  twelve  months,  and 
no  word  of  tidings  or  consolation  had  reached 
her  from  the  wretched  exile.  One  day  she  was 
kneeling  beside  her  child,  urging  upon  her  the 
necessity  of  taking  some  nourishment,  for  her 
failing  appetite  began  to  refuse  all  food.  What, 
under  these  circumstances,  were  the  mother's 
means?  Will  wealth,  will  luxury,  believe  it? 
Three  halfpence.  Ere  the  poor  invalid  had 
gained  power  to  reply,  the  sharp  rap  of  the  post- 
man startled  them.  Kate  ran  to  the  door  ;  she 
saw  a  letter  in  his  hnnd  —  she  knew  the  writing 
of  the  superscription  —  it  was  her  husband's. 
(Some  one  had  brought  the  letter  to  England, 
and  posted  it  in  London.)  She  trembled  —  she 
changed  color  —  she  held  forth  the  little  sum  she 
had  in  her  hand  — 

"  This  is  all  I  have  in  the  world,  but  let  me 

have    the    letter  —  it    is    from" utterance 

failed  her,  and  she  burst  into  tears.  The  post- 
man took  the  halfpence,  put  the  letter  in  her 
hand,  and  departed ;  but  in  an  instant  he  rapped 
again. 


84  KATE    OF    KILDARE. 

"  And  is  this  indeed  all  that  you  are  worth 
this  day?" 

"  All,"  she  replied. 

"  Then  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  take  it 
from  you  ;"  and  thrusting  it  back  into  her  hand 
he  hurried  away. 

Robert's  letter  was  read  and  re-read  by  both 
mother  and  child  amid  convulsions  of  feeling. 
Its  tone  was  contrite  and  tender.  Kate  saw  in 
it  evidences  of  improved  character,  and  her  soul 
yearned  to  be  beside  him,  to  strengthen  his  bet- 
ter purposes.  Gradually  the  emotions  so  fondly 
indulged  subsided,  and  she  thought  of  the  kindly 
being  who  had  brought  her  a  letter  so  precious, 
so  consolatory.  Having  obtained  the  means  to 
meet  the  little  debt,  she  watched  for  him  the  next 
day,  and  many  following  days,  but  in  vain. 
Humble  life  is  a  quarry  full  of  facts,  (the  details 
of  the  present  story  are  strictly  such,)  and  these 
facts  are  pregnant  with  evidence  of  the  high 
qualities  of  human  nature.  Fastidious  refine- 
ment, revolted  by  repelling  circumstances,  refuses 
to  look  into  it :  the  habitual  denizens  of  the  scene 
behold  self-denial  and  self-sacrifice  as  matters  of 
common  occurrence,  and  know  not  the  moral 
value  they  bear.  But  who  that  can  compare  and 
reflect,  but  must  pause  at  the  spectacle  thus  pre- 
sented. How  does  starvation  every  day  go  forth 
in  this  great  city,  amid  all  the  temptations  which 


KATE    OF    KILDARE.  8t) 

trade  can  devise  to  allure  luxury  and  invite  ex- 
penditure, and  urged  to  no  outrage,  return  to  its 
squalid  covert  to  eat  its  unpalatable  crust  in  pa- 
tience, or  in  like  manner  bear  its  utter  privation  ! 
How  will  honest  independence  and  the  domestic 
affections  reject  the  wretched  and  degrading 
refuge  which  is  all  that  society  will  extend  to 
the  reproachless  poor,  to  die  in  the  pangs  of  des- 
titution, but  with  the  feelings  of  the  heart  and 
home  yet  round  them  ! 

At  last  Kate  and  Howard,  the  postman,  (he 
was  worthy  of  the  name  he  bore,)  met  again,  and 
an  acquaintance  grew  up.  He  soon  appreciated 
her  character,  and  sympathized  with  her  suffer- 
ings, and  these,  in  a  nature  like  his,  induced 
exertion  in  her  behalf.  He  gained  her  the  notice 
of  a  charitable  society,  through  the  means  of 
which  the  closing  weeks  of  her  child's  life  were 
furnished  with  some  comforts,  and  when  death 
had  set  the  seal  on  her  sufferings,  afforded  the 
mourning  mother  requisites  for  the  last  sad 
duties. 

Kate  was  now  indeed  desolate.  The  being 
who  had  filled  so  large  a  space  in  her  heart, 
given  motive  for  so  much  exertion,  was  gone! 
All  her  desire,  all  her  hope  now,  was  to  make 
her  way  to  Hobart  Town;  but  how  to  accomplish 
that?  The  humble  philanthropist,  Howard,  Hs- 
tened  to  her  wishes,  and  pondered  with  almost 
8 


86 


KATE    OF    KILDARE. 


parental  kindliness  the  means  to  realize  them. 
One  evening  he  appeared  with  a  cheerful  smile, 
and  a  newspaper  in  his  hand.  He  pointed  out 
to  Kate  an  advertisement  —  it  was  for  a  young 
woman  to  go  out  as  nurse  and  attendant  to  an 
invalid  lady  returning  to  the  colony. 

•'  Go,"  said  Howard,  "tell  your  story  in  your 
own  simple  way.  I  know  something  of  Mr. 
Beaumont,  the  party  advertising  —  the  lady 
mentioned  is  his  wife.  His  father  was  an  old 
master  of  mine,  and  got  me  the  place  I  hold  in 
the  post-office." 

Kate  felt  a  prescience  that  her  path  was  plain 
before  her.  She  was  not  mistaken.  Her  truth- 
ful earnestness,  her  ingenuous  aspect,  had  their 
effect :  her  humble  friend  had  not  overrated  his 
power  or  her  own  —  Kate  was  engaged  for  the 
voyage.  An  application  to  her  step-mother 
gained  her  the  means  of  an  humble  outfit ;  and 
once  more  hopes  akin  to  happiness  dawned  upon 
her.  The  elements  seemed  resolved  to  spare 
one  who  had  met  so  many  moral  storms  :  "  a  fair 
wind  and  a  flowing  sail "  bore  her  on  through  a 
prosperous  voyage  ;  and  a  fine  autumn  day  in 
the  beautiful  month  of  March  saw  the  good  ship 
come  to  anchor  in  Sullivan's  Cove. 

Few  who  had  known  Kate  in  her  brilliant, 
joyous  youth,  would  have  recognized  her  in  the 
placid,  self-possessed  woman,  who   landed  that 


KATE    OF    KILDARE.  87 

day  in  Hobart  Town;  still  fewer  would  have 
guessed  how  powerful  were  the  feelings  silently 
at  work  in  her  breast  as  the  time  grew  near  for 
meeting  the  lover  of  her  youth,  the  husband  of 
her  heart,  for  whom  she  had  sorrowed  and  suf- 
fered so  intensely. 

Mr.  Beaumont  made  it  his  first  business  to  in- 
quire about  Robert,  for  the  sake  of  one,  who,  in 
the  short  period  of  five  months,  had  established 
herself  in  the  esteem,  and  entitled  herself  to  the 
gratitude,  of  those  she  served.  He  was  pleased 
to  find  him  among  the  men  employed  by  his  own 
firm :  the  pleasure  was,  however,  damped  by  the 
mixed  report  he  gained.  Horrey  was  described 
as  a  man  not  without  his  merits,  but  as  one  not 
to  be  depended  upon.  With  a  charitable  trust  in 
the  force  of  improved  circumstances,  and  renewed 
association  with  his  reproachless  wife,  Mr.  Beau- 
mont brought  them  together.  Unhappily,  Rob- 
ert Horrey  was  already  involved  in  fatal  associa- 
tions, which  began  to  develop  themselves  soon 
after  his  reunion  with  Kate.  Investigation  was 
at  work,  and  detection,  though  slow  in  following 
upon  his  delinquency,  was  only  too  sure.  The 
joy,  the  hope,  that  visited  her  heart  was  of  short 
duration.  A  second  time  she  beheld  her  hus- 
band arraigned  as  a  criminal :  his  trial  was  a 
searching  one,  and  his  sentence  was  deemed 
severe.     But,  as  a  superior  man  among  the  pris- 


8S  KATE    OF    KILDARE. 

oners,  he  had  met  encouragement  and  indul- 
gence ;  the  abuse  of  these  advantages  had  deep- 
ened the  die  of  his  offences,  had  denied  justice 
any  ground  for  mercy,  and  sentence  of  death 
was  pronounced  upon  him. 

This  blow  appeared  to  crush  the  wretched  cul- 
prit ;  he  was  conveyed  back  to  prison  as  if  par- 
alyzed. Kate  succumbed  but  as  it  were  for  a 
moment ;  there  was  a  regenerating  power  seated 
in  her  high  purposes,  and  infinite  trust  in  divine 
support,  which  pierced  even  the  dense  darkness 
round  her.  It  is  remembered  how  she  immedi- 
ately sought  the  governor,  and  when  denied 
access  to  him,  passed  the  night  on  the  steps  of 
the  door  of  Government-house,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing won  her  way  to  his  wife.  There  another 
triumph  was  reserved  for  Kate  ;  her  indomitable 
perseverance,  her  peculiar  character,  and  irre- 
proachable conduct,  prevailed  over  every  obstacle 
—  the  governor's  heart  yielded  to  the  pleadings 
of  his  own  wife  and  the  wife  of  the  criminal,  and 
the  sentence  of  death  was  commuted  to  banish- 
ment to  Norfolk  Island  —  an  island  lying  on  the 
east  coast  of  New  Holland,  and  reserved  as  a 
place  ot  punishment  for  the  worst  class  of  male 
convicts. 

The  Beaumonts,  wiih  the  commiseration  and 
respect  for  Kate  which  her  circumstances  and 
character  commanded,  ofTered  her  an  asylum  in 


KATE    OF    KILDARE. 


their  service,  but  she  declared  she  could  enter 
into  no  engagement  that  might  interfere  with 
what  was  now  her  great  object  —  to  join  her 
husband  in  his  last  wretched  exile.     In  vain  she 
was  assured  that  it  was  a  scheme  impossible  of 
realization  —  that  no  woman  had  ever  been  ad- 
mitted to  the  place,  and  that  existence  for  her 
there  would  be  unendurable.     She  proved  that 
every  obstacle  was  destined  to  fall  before  her 
untiring  energies  —  she  memorialized  the  author- 
ities, she  assailed  every  avenue  by  which  pity 
could  make  approach  to  power,  and  at  length 
was  allowed  to  proceed  to  Norfolk  Island.     A 
residence  of  five  years  there  made  her  the  mother 
of  two  children ;  now  it  was  that  she  found  her- 
self compelled   to    choose    between   conflicting 
duties.    The  moral  life  of  her  offspring  depended 
on  removing  them  from  a  scene  so  unfitted  for 
their  opening  perceptions.     It  was  enough  for 
Kate  to  arrive  at  a  conviction  of  what  she  aught 
to  do ;  this  was  the  fulcrum  of  the  resolute  will 
by  which  she  accomplished  so  much.     She  came 
back  to  Hobart  Town,  and  by  employment  as  a 
laundress  obtained  support  for  her  children  :  but 
amid  her  maternal  duties  and  daily  toils,  he  who 
filled  the  first  place  in  her  heart  was  never  for- 
gotten, and  in  an  interview  with  Mr.  Beaumont 
she  avowed,  that  to  see  Robert  once  again   at 
home  and  happy,  was  still  the  vision  and  the 
8=^ 


90  KATE    OF    KILDARE. 

hope,  the  purpose  and  plan,  of  her  life.  The  un- 
conquerable character  of  her  attachment,  and  the 
triumphs  it  had  achieved,  checked  the  incredulity 
with  which,  in  any  other  case,  Mr.  Beaumont 
would  have  received  such  an  idea;  but  he  had 
learned  to  look  upon  the  humble  woman  before 
him,  so  meekly  ignorant  of  her  own  magna- 
nimity, as  chartered  by  her  virtues  to  hope 
where  all  others  should  despair,  and  unexpect- 
edly he  found  himself  in  a  position  again  to  give 
her  aid. 

Mr.  Beaumont  was  appointed  to  a  commission 
of  inquiry  into  the  state  of  Norfolk  Island.  On 
his  arrival  there,  it  was  among  his  first  objects 
to  inquire  out  Robert  Horrey;  he  heard  he  was 
an  altered  man  —  he  soon  saw  he  was  a  dying 
one.  Representations,  backed  by  certificates 
from  the  medical  man,  and  sustained  by  power- 
ful and  universal  advocacy  drawn  from  senti- 
ments of  admiration  and  regard  for  Kate,  were 
successful  —  when  Mr.  Beaumont  returned  to 
Hobart  Town,  he  brought  Robert  Horrey  with 
him,  and  with  what  he  had  left  of  life  and 
strength,  the  wretched  man  found  refuge  with 
his  devoted  wife. 

For  a  time  he  rallied  —  to  behold  himself  once 
more  in  the  secure  shelter  of  his  home,  beside 
that  creature  who,  through  "  bad  report  and  good 
report,"  had  unchangeably  clung  to  his  destiny; 


KATE    OF    KILDARE.  91 

and  to  see  his  little  children  at  his  knees,  to  feel 
the  babe  which  Kate  had  borne  to  him  since  they 
last  parted,  on  his  bosom,  created  a  powerful  re- 
action. The  springs  of  his  better  nature  gushed 
forth,  as  if  to  refresh  and  purify  the  heart,  the 
pulses  of  which  were  now  numbered  —  to  regen- 
erate the  spirit  which  was  soon  to  pass  from  time 
and  trial  forever.  One  month  after  their  re- 
union, Kate  received  his  last  sigh.  There  was 
no  violence  in  her  grief;  her  sorrow  was  as 
serene  as  the  hopes  that  soothed  it.  "  Now," 
she  said,  "  there  is  but  one  more  journey  for  me. 
He  cannot  come  to  me,  but  I  shall  go  to  him. 
When  Robert  and  I  meet  again,  we  shall  part  no 
more." 


92 


FRIENDSHIP. 

BY     3.     JOHNSON. 

Friendship,  peculiar  boon  of  Heaven, 
The  noble  mind's  delight  and  pride, 

To  men  and  angels  only  given, 
To  all  the  lower  world  denied. 

While  Love,  unknown  among  the  blessed, 
Parent  of  thousand  wild  desires, 

The  savage  and  the  human  breast 
Torment  alike  with  raging  fires  : 

With  bright,  but  oft  destructive  gleam. 
Alike  o'er  all  his  lightnings  fly, — 

Thy  lambent  glories  only  beam 
Around  the  favorites  of  the  sky. 

Thy  gentle  flows  of  guiltless  joys 
On  fools  and  villains  ne'er  descend ; 

In  vain  for  thee  the  tyrant  sighs. 
And  hugs  a  flatterer  for  a  friend. 

Directress  of  the  brave  and  just, 

O,  guide  us  through  life's  darksome  way! 
And  let  the  tortures  of  mistrust 

On  selfish  bosoms  only  prey. 


FRIENDSHIP.  93 


Nor  shall  thine  ardors  cease  to  glow, 
When  souls  to  peaceful  climes  remove  : 

What  raised  our  virtue  here  below 
Shall  aid  our  happiness  above. 


94 


UNCLE  BENJIE'S   RING. 

BY     G  .     C  .     P. 

Mi\NY  a  long  summer  day  have  I  dreamed 
away  in  the  pleasant  bowers  and  under  the 
stately  oaks  that  adorned  the  old  manor-house  of 

F ,  and  in  the  cool  old  rooms,  too,  unspoiled  by 

modern  windows,  dim  and  shady,  even  in  blazing 
July.  True,  these  windows  had  their  disadvan- 
tages— they  were  somewhat  too  high,  and  rather 
overgrown  outside  by  honeysuckles  and  moss- 
roses  ;  but  there  were  stained  glass  doors,  open- 
ing to  the  garden  in  various  directions,  which  led 
you  through  bowers  of  fragrant  limes  to  terraced 
parterres.  In  this  paradise,  as,  indeed,  it  ap- 
peared to  me  after  my  dusty  chambers  in  Lon- 
don, I  used  to  spend  as  much  time  as  I  could 
snatch  from  my  professional  avocations.  The 
family  partook,  as  much  as  the  house,  of  former 
times.  Squire  Eatcliffe  was  the  best  specimen 
I  ever  saw  of  a  genuine  English  country  gentle- 
man, and  his  daughters  were  warm-hearted,  un- 
sophisticated girls,  radiant  in  health  and  good 
humor.  The  children  of  the  eldest  son,  who  had 
been  left  a  widower,  were  added  to  the  family 


UNCLE    BENJIE's    RING.  95 

group ;  and  a  happier  or  a  merrier  one  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  find. 

Since  my  last  visit,  however,  an  addition  had 
been  made  to  it,  which,  judging  from  the  letters 
I  received,  did  not  appear  to  have  contributed  to 
their  mirth.  This  was  the  squire's  younger 
brother — (though  younger,  he  looked  years  his 
senior)  —  a  dyspeptic,  yellow-looking  invalid, 
not  long  returned  from  India  —  who  had  sought 
the  home  of  his  childhood  in  the  vain  hope  that 
its  soothing  influence  would  renovate  the  health 
he  had  lost,  and,  still  worse,  the  mind  he  had 
soured  and  irritated,  under  the  burning  sun  of  the 

East.    He  was  warmly  welcomed  at  F :  the 

squire  really  loved  his  brother,  and,  perhaps,  as 
he  was  wealthy  and  childless,  some  slight  touch 
of  self-interest  mingled  with  the  wish  to  keep 
him  amongst  them,  as  it  soon  became  apparent 
he  would  be  anything  but  a  pleasant  addition  to 
the  family.  Many  and  loud  were  the  complaints 
of  the  younger  branches  against  Uncle  Benjie, 
(for  so  they  chose  to  abbreviate  Benjamin ;)  and 
even  the  squire  himself,  notwithstanding  his 
equanimity,  was  sometimes  annoyed  by  his 
peevishness  and  ill-humor.  But  with  regard  to 
the  children,  I  really  sympathized  with  him,  for 
they  were  a  most  undisciplined  set;  and  often 
had  I  suffered  myself  from  their  inroads  into  my 
apartment,  which  were  generally  followed  by  the 


96 


UNCLE    BENJIE  S    RING. 


loss  of  some  perhaps  indispensable  article  of  my 
toilet.  Their  noise,  too,  was  terrific,  and  it  was 
vain  to  remonstrate — the  squire  loved  it;  the 
eldest  girl,  Caroline,  who  ought  to  have  taken 
her  mother's  place,  and  kept  something  like 
order,  was  wholly  occupied  in  assisting  the  cu- 
rate of  the  parish  in  visiting  and  instructing  the 
poor,  and  the  younger  ones  only  assisted  to 
increase  the  noise.  They  positively  hated  their 
unfortunate  uncle;  they  even  disliked  the  Indian- 
like atmosphere  of  sandal-wood,  by  which  he  was 
always  surrounded  ;  and  one  curly-headed  rogue 
actually  bestowed  a  bottle  of  choice  perfume  upon 
the  rough  crest  and  velvet  ears  of  an  old  deer- 
hound  who  shared  their  gambols,  much  to  the 
disgust  of  the  dog.  The  unfortunate  nabob,  as 
may  be  supposed,  did  not  become  more  amiable 
under  all  these  provocations ;  he  grew  daily 
more  irritable  and  dyspeptic ;  he  could  not  sleep, 
and  all  the  sedatives  of  the  family  apothecary 
failed  of  any  beneficial  efl^ect.  If  he  d'ld  sleep, 
he  was  tormented  with  unquiet  dreams,  and  often 
spent  the  night  in  contending  with  imaginary 
robbers  for  his  dearly  acquired  treasure.  He  was 
of  a  suspicious  nature,  and  often  thought  that 
the  trifles  he  missed,  which  were,  in  reality,  ab- 
stracted by  the  children,  was  part  of  a  conspiracy 
to  rob  him  amongst  the  servants;  and  circum- 
stances seemed  really  at  last  to  justify  his  suspi- 


UNCLE    BENJIE's    RING.  97 

cions,  for  one  after  another  various  valuable 
articles  disappeared  in  a  most  mysterious  man- 
ner. The  children  declared  he  hid  them  himself, 
on  purpose  to  torment  people ;  and  the  servants, 
who  were  apparently  honest  and  faithful,  did 
their  utmost  to  discover  the  culprit,  but  in  vain. 
At  length  a  purse,  containing  some  valuable 
coins,  and,  worse  than  all,  a  ring  of  still  greater 
value,  disappeared  —  they  certainly  were  curious 
things  to  steal,  bat  they  were  gone  —  and  Uncle 
Benjie  was  distracted.  He  valued  the  ring  more 
than  anything  he  possessed :  it  was  of  massive 
Indian  gold,  engraved  with  eastern  characters, 
and  was  the  admiration  of  the  children  as  it 
dangled  on  his  skinny  finger.  It  was  always 
deposited  at  night  in  a  sandal-Vv'ood  box,  that 
stood  upon  his  dressing-table  —  box  and  rin^^  had 
vanished ! 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  consternation  of  the 
whole  house,  which  was  increased  by  vague 
rumors  of  a  figure  in  white  seen  to  glide  along 
the  garden-walks  by  moonlight.  This  story 
was,  naturally  enough,  treated  by  the  younger 
Mr.  Ratcliffe  as  an  invention  of  the  guilty 
parties  ;  and  the  poor  squire,  in  a  paroxysm  of 
despair,  wrote  to  me,  requesting,  if  I  loved  him, 

I  would  instantly  repair  to  F ,  and  bring  all 

my  legal  knowledge  to  bear  upon  this  painful 
subject.     I  obeyed  the  summons,  delighted,  on 
9 


98  UNCLE  benjie's  ring. 

any  pretext,  to  escape  into  the  country,  and  an- 
ticipating some  amusement  from  the  cause  of  my 
visit.  I  found,  however,  on  my  arrival,  thai  it 
was  no  laughing  matter;  my  old  friend  looked 
perplexed  and  unhappy,  the  nabob  forgot  his 
physical  infirmities,  and  raged  like  a  Bengal 
tiger;  the  excitement  had  evidently  so  quick 
ened  the  action  of  his  liver  that  he  appeared  a 
new  man.  He  allowed  me  one  day  for  my  inves- 
tigation, at  the  end  of  which  time,  if  I  could 
make  out  nothing  satisfactory,  he  protested  he 
would  put  the  affair  into  the  hands  of  the  magis- 
trates. The  servants  were  anxious  for  the  fullest 
investigation  ;  but  the  most  remarkable  change 
was  in  the  children,  who  crept  about  the  house 
in  comparative  silence,  and  avoided  Uncle  Ben- 
jie's door  as  if  they  expected  the  ghost  in  white, 
hinted  at  before,  to  issue  forth.  The  only  per- 
son who  appeared  unconcerned  on  the  subject 
was  Miss  Caroline,  and  I  was  rather  displeased 
that  she  continued  her  walks  with  the  curate, 
without  appearing  to  care  for  the  discomfort 
which  prevailed  at  home. 

Upon  retiring  for  the  night,  I  summoned  to  my 
dressing-room  the  old  lady  who,  having  otliciated 
for  nearly  half  a  century  as  nurse  and  house- 
keeper in  the  family,  had  presided  over  the  estab- 
lishment since  Mr>.  Ratcliffe's  death.  A  flood 
of  tears  was  her  first  reply  to  my  questions,  but 


UNCLE    BENJIE's    RING.  99 

when  these  subsided  I  could  learn  nothing  that 
could  in  the  least  tend  to  elucidate  the  mys^tery; 
on  the  contrary,  what  she  told  me  rather  in- 
creased it,  as  it  appeared  the  valuables  missing 
disappeared  without  the  slightest  trace  of  their 
exit.  I  touched  upon  the  subject  of  the  ghost, 
and,  after  looking  around  the  room  as  if  she  half 
expected  it  would  appear,  she  assured  me  that 
the  keeper  had  seen  it  more  than  once,  gliding 
about  the  walks  below  the  grotto.  With  this 
information  she  retired,  leaving  me  to  my  own 
meditations,  which,  it  must  be  owned,  were 
rather  of  a  perplexing  nature. 

What  to  do  —  what  steps  to  take,  T  knew  not. 
I  pared  the  room  till,  between  my  perplexities 
and  the  heat  of  the  night,  I  was  in  a  perfect 
fever.  It  was  vain  to  attempt  to  sleep,  so,  throw- 
inir  myself  into  a  chair  by  the  open  window,  I 
tried  to  calm  my  mind  with  gazing  on  the  fair 
scene  without.  Gradually  the  softness  of  the 
hour  beguiled  me;  I  sunk  into  a  dreamy  reverie 

—  almost,  I  suppose,  into  sleep  —  when  the  large 
stable  clock  struck  one."  I  started  up,  as  the  dull, 
heavy  sound  fell  upon  my  ear.  I  looked  again 
from  the  window:  surely  — I  rubbed  my  eyes 

—  but  there,  surely,  by  that  bed  of  geraniums  I 
knew  so  well,  stood  a  tall,  white  figure  ;  it  moved 
suddenly  forwards,  and  threw  down  a  flower-pot 

—  1  sav/  it  fall  distinctly.     To  rush  down  stairs 


100  UNCLE    BENJIE's    RING. 

through  one  of  the  glass  doors,  (I  believe  they 
were  never  fastened,)  and  out  into  the  garden, 
was  the  work  of  a  moment,  —  but  nothing  could 
[  see  but  the  flowers,  looking  almost  as  brilliant 
as  in  the  day  in  the  flood  of  light  which  so  pic- 
turesquely softened  the  grotesque  statues  which 
our  ancestors  supposed  ornamented  their  terraced 
gardens.  In  no  mood,  however,  to  pause  over  the 
beauties  of  the  scene,  I  rushed  on  to  the  spot 
where  the  vision  had  appeared ;  there  lay  the 
broken  flower-pot,  proving  to  me  it  was  no  trick 
of  the  imagination.  I  paused,  breathless,  for 
some  indication  of  the  path  it  had  taken,  and, 
seeing  a  small  gate  open  which  led  to  the  grotto, 
I  rushed  down  the  steep  and  rough  path  with  so 
little  caution,  that,  catching  my  foot  in  the  moss- 
covered  root  of  a  tree,  I  fell  on  my  face  in  the 
bushes.  And  here,  gentle  reader,  1  must  remain 
a  few  minutes,  while  I  indulge  in  a  short  de- 
scription of  one  of  the  sweetest  spots  in  the 
universe.  About  half  way  down  the  above  men- 
tioned path,  a  little  to  the  right,  stands  a  grotto, 
from  whence,  between  the  trees,  which  have  been 
suffered  to  grow  a  little  too  wildly,  you  catch 
glimpses  of  the  opposite  river.  Descending  still 
lower,  you  find  yourself  in  a  tangled  bower,  im- 
pervious to  either  sun  or  shower,  luxuriously 
cool  and  fresh  in  the  hottest  day.  On  one  side 
of  this  romantic  little  glen,  the  ground  rises  so 


UNCLE    BENJIE's    RING.  101 

precipitously,  and  the  trees  grow  into  such  gro- 
tesque entanglements,  as  to  bar  all  entrance  ;  but 
on  another  is  a  winding  path  I  have  often  fol- 
lowed, and  just  in  the  very  spot  you  would  wish, 
lies  a  fallen  tree,  where,  with  some  pleasant  book, 
or  in  commune  with  your  own  heart,  you  might 
forget  time  and  space.  On  one  side,  too,  is  a 
natural  cavern,  of  no  great  depth,  and  generally 
full  of  dead  leaves,  which  always  seemed  to  me 
admirably  adapted  for  an  ice-house.  I  have 
heard  Mr.  Ratcliffe  say,  that,  excepting  that  the 
trees  grow  every  year  wilder  and  more  entangled, 
the  spot  remams  the  same  as  when,  in  the  boy- 
hood of  his  brother  and  himself,  it  was  their 
favorite  place  to  play  at  hide-and-seek.  But 
descriptions  are  proverbially  tiresome,  so  I  re- 
turn to  my  tale.  Extricating  myself  with  some 
trouble  from  the  thick  bower  of  fragrant  seringa 
into  which  I  had  fallen,  and  shaking  off  the 
snowy  blossoms,  I  proceeded  more  slowly  and 
carefully  until  1  reached  the  turning  to  the  grotto. 
And  here  I  paused  a  little  to  reflect  on  my  situa- 
tion. I  v.as  aldtie,  unarm.ed  —  even  without  a 
stick  —  and  beyond  the  reach  of  aid,  unless  the 
keeper  or  his  assistants  chanced  to  be  within 
call ;  the  thief,  if  thief  it  was,  was,  doubtless, 
prepared  for  resistance.  This,  then,  was  the 
pretended  ghost ;  the  very  word,  in  idea  only, 
produced  an  unpleasant  feeling.  Pshaw  !  do 
9* 


102  UNCLE    BENJIE's    RING. 

ghosts  open  gates,  and  throw  down  flower-pots  ? 
I  advanced  to  the  grotto;  a  bat,  apparently  more 
frightened  than  myself,  flew  out  in  my  face  ;  I 
persevered,  however,  and  looked  in  —  it  was 
empty.  I  sat  down  a  few  moments  to  consider 
what  I  should  do  next :  a  rustling-  sound  caui^ht 
my  ear  —  the  night  was  perfectly  still.  I  ad- 
vanced to  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  distinctly 
heard  a  footstep  among  the  last  year's  leaves, 
that  lay  deep  in  some  parts  of  the  dell  below.  I 
crept  lower  down,  and  endeavored  to  peep  be- 
tween the  trees,  but  the  foliage  was  so  thick  I 
could  see  nothing.  I  then  began,  with  a  beating 
heart,  to  descend  the  hill,  still  hearing  at  inter- 
vals the  leaves  cracking  under  the  tread  of  the 
foot  below,  when,  just  before  I  reached  the  fallen 
tree  I  mentioned  before,  I  came  suddenly  upon 
the  object  of  my  search.  About  twenty  or  thirty 
yards  before  me  was  a  tall  figure,  robed  in  white, 
or  some  very  light  color ;  the  back  was  turned 
towards  me,  and  it  was  advancing  with  hasty 
step  to  the  rocky  cavern  at  the  extremity  of  the 
glen.  An  involuntary  exclamation  escaped  me, 
but  it  heeded  not.  I  followed,  but  it  did  not 
appear  to  hear  my  steps,  though  I  sunk  almost 
ankle  deep  in  dry  leaves.  Swiftly  and  steadily 
it  advanced  to  the  cavern,  then  stooped  as  if 
about  to  enter.  With  the  strength  and  energy 
of  despair,  I  sprang  forward,  grappled,  and  rolled 


UNCLE    BENJIE's    RING.  103 

over  with  —  Uncle  Be  ijie  !  Could  I  believe  my 
senses  ?  —  Was  I  awake  ?  I  assisted  him  to  rise, 
placed  him  on  the  fallen  tree,  and  myself  beside 
him.  It  was  Uncle  Benjie,  clad  in  a  long  white 
dressing-gown,  flowered  with  gold  pagodas.  He 
stared  at  me  vacantly,  and  spoke  in  such  an  in- 
coherent way  1  thought  he  must  be  mad.  Sud- 
denly a  thought  struck  me,  — he  had  been  walking 
in  his  sleep.  I  spoke  gently  and  quietly  to  him, 
and  with  some  trouble  half  led,  half  carried  him 
into  the  house,  and,  calling  up  his  brother,  we 
succeeded  in  rousing  him  from  his  lethargic 
stupor,  when  I  related  to  him  the  events  of  the 
night.  Instead,  however,  of  following  our  ad- 
vice, which  was  to  take  one  of  Squib's  composing 
mixtures  and  go  quietly  to  bed,  he  swore  at  the 
doctor,  and  throwing  on  some  of  his  clothes  in 
great  haste,  rushed  out  of  the  house.  We  fol- 
lowed, and  arrived  together  at  the  cavern  in  the 
glen,  where,  diving  under  the  leaves,  he  brought 
out  first  the  purse  and  the  ring,  box  and  all,  and, 
by  degrees,  all  the  lost  treasures  that  had  caused 
such  vexation  and  perplexities.  After  staring  at 
one  another  a  little,  we  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh, 
in  which  Uncle  Benjie  cordially  joined,  and  we 
had  some  trouble  to  persuade  him  to  go  to  bed 
after  all  his  nocturnal  rambles.  He  rose  an 
altered  m.an.  In  a  conversation  we  had  together 
afterwards,  he  told  me  that,  fancying  he  was 


104  UNCLE    BENJIE's    RING. 

robbed  in  his  brother's  ho' se,the  dread  of  losing 
his  valuable  effects  haunted  him  day  and  night; 
and  to  this,  actini^  upon  a  disordered  body,  he 
attributed  the  extraordinary  feats  of  somnambu- 
lism he  perpetrated.  He  had  been  a  sleep- 
walker, too,  he  told  me,  when  a  boy.  The  rocky 
dell,  he  said,  had  been  the  favorite  haunt  of  his 
childhood,  which  accounted  for  his  choosing  it  as 
the  spot  for  depositing  his  treasures.  His  grati- 
tude to  me  was  unbounded,  but  the  only  proof 
of  it  I  w^ould  consent  to  receive  was,  that  the 
ring  he  valued  so  much,  and  whi^h  was  really 
curious,  should  be  left  to  me  at  his  death.  Uncle 
Benjie  is  now  as  much  beloved  by  the  children 
as  he  was  formerly  disliked;  they  are  even  re- 
conciled to  his  Indian  perfume,  which  they  used 
to  declare  so  suffocating.  My  next  visit  to  the 
manor-house  is  to  be  on  the  occasion  of  ]\Jiss 
Caroline's  marriage  to  the  before  mentioned 
curate,  who  hopes  soon  to  become  rector  through 
the  kindness  of  Uncle  Benjie. 


105 


THE    IVY    AND    THE    OAK. 

BY     MARY     HARRIET     ACTON. 

There  stood  an  oak,  a  gallant  oak, 

Within  a  forest  proud  ; 
And  high  above  the  woodman's  stroke 

Its  leafy  branches  bowed, 
The  lord  amid  the  woodland  scene 

Of  all  that  flourished  near ; 
And  round  its  trunk  the  ivy  green 

Had  twined  for  many  a  year. 

Oh  !  fondly  did  the  ivy  cling 

Around  that  stately  tree, 
And  lovely  in  the  budding  spring 

Its  leaves  were  wont  to  be ; 
No  storm  its  clasping  stem  could  move 

As  round  each  branch  it  grew, 
And  oft  the  oak  had  said  its  love 

Was  with  the  ivy  true. 

But  one  sad  day  a  nightingale, 
From  the  sweet  scented  glade, 

And  the  roses  of  the  sunny  vale. 
To  the  forest's  shelter  strayed ; 


106  THE    IVY    AND    THE    OAK. 

And  chose  the  kingly  oak  so  high 

Its  resting  place  to  make, 
And  the  tree  forgot  the  ivy  nigh 

For  the  gifted  stranger's  sake  ! 

Oh !  the  ivy  wept  both  day  and  night, 

Such  altered  love  to  know, 
And  scarcely  seemed  the  sunbeams  bright 

To  its  heart  so  choked  with  woe ; 
But  the  faithless  oak  still  prized  the  bird, 

With  its  silvery  notes  so  rare, 
And  its  melody  tiie  forest  heard 

Through  the  balmy  summer  air. 

The  steps  of  winter  silently 

Came  stealing  o'er  the  earth, 
And  the  flowers  bent  them  down  to  die, 

And  the  leaves  forgot  their  mirth  ; 
And  the  nightingale,  without  a  look 

Of  gratitude  or  pain. 
The  high  and  stately  oak  forsook 

For  its  woodbine  home  again. 

Then  the  tree's  proud  heart  with  shame  was  torn 

So  lightly  prized  to  be, 
And  the  woods  around  beheld  with  scorn 

Its  slighted  majesty  : 
The  glowwornis  in  their  leafy  bower 

Laughed  gleefully  below, 
And  shook  with  mirth  each  forest  flower, 

its  lowered  pride  to  know. 


THE    IVY    AND    THE    OAK.  107 

But  thouirh  SO  long  thrown  coldly  by, 

Tlie  ivy  nearer  drew, 
And  o'er  the  drooping  branches  nigh 

Its  brightest  leaves  it  threw; 
And  never  when  the  dewy  spring 

Came  forth  in  beauty  free, 
Did  the  ivy  e'er  so  firmly  cling, 

As  round  that  humbled  tree. 

And  dearly  for  such  trusting  care 

Did  the  oak  its  duty  prove. 
Nor  turned  again  for  aught  more  fair 

From  its  fond  and  ancient  love ; 
But  proudly  in  the  forest  shade 

Stood  long  unchanged  and  true, 
And  when  the  stately  oak  decayed 

The  iv}'  withered  too ! 


108 


THE  HEROINE  OF  THE  HUON. 

BT     MARY    LEMAN     GILLIES. 

It  was  a  bright  spring  morning  when  the  sig- 
nal at  Mount  Nelson  announced  a  ship  in  sight, 
and  immediately  the  yellow  flag  was  hoisted  at 
Mulgrave  battery,  and  proclaimed  the  welcome 
news  to  the  inhabitants  of  Hobart  Town.  Those 
of  London,  that  emporium  in  which  culminate 
all  the  great  interests  of  existence,  could  but 
poorly  imagine  the  emotions  excited  by  the 
event.  Expectation  was  on  tiptoe ;  the  vessel 
might  be  from  Sydney,  from  India,  above  all,  it 
might  be  from  England.  At  the  period  of  my 
story  all  were  exiles.  Natives,  save  the  dark 
race  which  is  fast  disappearing  before  the  white 
man,  there  were  none.  All,  I  repeat,  were 
exiles,  but  all  were  not  penal  exiles.  The  exiles 
to  whom  I  allude  were  those  settlers  whom  step- 
dame  fortune  had  driven  from  their  father-land, 
or  whom  the  hope  of  winning  her  favor  had 
allured  from  it.  All  these  had  left  their  loves 
and  dearest  interests  behind  them,  and  all  their 
dreams  and  wishes  were  directed  to  the  fair  fields 
and  bright  firesides  of  their  childhood.  It  is  now 
far  otherwise.     Van  Diemen's  Land,  like  other 


THE  HEROINE  OF  THE  HUON.       109 

lands,  has  grown  national,  with  the  usual  exclu- 
sive prejudices  and  partialities.  Beautiful  girls 
and  gallant  youths,  born  in  its  sweet  valleys, 
have  ripened  into  womanhood,  have  become  sur- 
rounded by  a  young  progeny,  and  they  love  the 
land  of  their  own  and  their  children's  birth  in  a 
manner  impossible  to  their  fathers,  to  whom  it 
was  but  the  land  of  adoption. 

If  the  approaching  bark  was  anticipated  by 
many  a  beating  heart  in  Hobart  Town  and  its 
vicinity,  what  were  the  feelings  of  those  on  board 
the  Dart,  the  gallant  ship  that  had  now  been 
nearly  five  months  from  England  ?  It  carried  a 
miscellaneous  assemblage  of  passengers,  and  had 
touched  at  Cojrk  to  take  in  some  women  and  chil- 
dren who  were  going  to  join  their  husbands  and 
fathers  in  the  colony.  In  all  this  freight  of  hu- 
manity there  were  two  women  singularly  remark- 
able :  the  one,  Dora  Callan,  for  beauty  ;  the  other, 
Bridget  Ryan,  for  an  extreme  ugliness,  which 
would  have  been  repulsive,  had  it  not  been  re- 
deemed by  honesty,  simplicity,  and  good  nature. 
She  had  an  infant  of  a  few  weeks  old,  to  which 
she  was  a  tender,  watchful  mother ;  but  it  did 
not  engross  her  genial  heart.  She  had  a  kind 
word  for  every  one,  and  a  helping  hand  for  all 
who  needed  her  aid :  the  sick  found  her  ready 
to  forego  her  rest  to  soothe  his  sufferings,  and 
the  sorrowing  never  called  upon  her  sympathy 
10 


110       THE  HEROINE  OF  THE  HUON. 

in  vain ;  and  it  was  scon  the  feeling  of  all  on 
board  to  seek  Bridget  Ryan  under  any  emer- 
gency of  annoyance  or  distress.  But,  above  all, 
she  became  to  Dora  Callan  the  very  stay  and 
prop  of  her  existence :  the  young  creature  had 
come  on  board  in  bad  health,  and  with  the  pros- 
pect of  becoming  a  mother,  a  prospect  realized 
before  they  were  many  weeks  at  sea.  In  her  hour 
of  trial  who  was  beside  her?  Bridget  Ryan. 
When  the  new-born  made  its  feeble  appeal  to  its 
feeble  mother,  who  took  it  to  a  cherishing  breast  ? 
Bridget  Ryan.  Amid  all  her  own  and  her  in- 
fant's wants,  she  found  the  means  to  minister  to 
the  wants  of  the  young  mother  and  her  nursling ; 
amid  all  the  claims  upon  her  time  and  toil,  she 
found  hours  to  devote  to  them. 

"  Bridget  Ryan,"  said  Dora,  "  I  shall  never  see 
the  far  land  we  are  seeking,  and  one  is  waiting 
me  there  to  whom  it  will  be  a  sore  sorrow.  Here 
is  his  last  letter,  which  I  have  read  every  night 
after  my  prayers,  and  every  morning  as  soon  as 
it  was  light.  He  will  be  on  the  watch  for  our 
ship,  and  among  the  first  on  board." 

"  Heaven  speed  him,  my  woman  !"  exclaimed 
the  cheerful  Bridget,  "  and  won't  he  be  proud  of 
the  gift  you  have  for  him  ?"  she  added,  looking  at 
the  sleeping  child  ;  "  oh,  sure  and  it  is  I  must  be 
at  the  merry  meeting." 


THE    IIEROIXE    OF    THE    HUON.  Ill 

"  Who  has  such  right,  Bridget  ?  But  it  ^^'ill 
never  be." 

"  Tush,  woman  dear,  tush  !  Don't  talk  such 
non'sense,  child.  It  is  the  icakeness  that  has 
come  over  you.  Wait  a  while,  and  a  blithe  chris- 
tening we  '11  have  when  we  are  once  on  shore." 

The  young  mother  bowed  her  beautiful  face 
upon  her  pillow,  and  the  heaving  of  her  breast 
revealed  the  emotion  that  convulsed  her.  After 
an  effort  at  composure,  she  raised  herself  in  the 
bed  and  flung  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  her 
friend. 

"  Oh,  on  this  wide,  wide  sea,  where  I  thought 
to  find  only  danger  and  sorrow,  I  have  found  a 
friend  like  unto  the  mother  I  have  left.  You 
will  have  her  blessing,  Bridget,  and  his.  Oh, 
that  I  might  live  to  tell  him  all  I  owe  you!" 

"  Now,  Dora,  dear,  if  you  go  on  after  this  man- 
ner," said  Bridget,  struggling  with  emotion,  and 
gently  trying  to  disengage  herself,  "  what  will  I 
do  !  Sure  I  shall  be  fit  for  nothing  this  blessed 
day  —  and  the  babes,  too  —  why  we  are  chang- 
ing places  with  them,  and  crying,  as  if  they  could 
not  do  it  much  better  than  we.  Take  heart, 
woman  dear,  the  boy  will  need  all  your  care." 

"  All  yours,  Bridget,  all  yours.  Oh  !  tell  me 
you  will  never  forsake  him.  I  know  it,  I  feel  it, 
he  will  soon  be  alone  with  you  —  have  only  you. 
Oh,  let  him  creep  to  your  heart  w^hen  the  salt 


112       THE  HEROINE  OF  THE  HUON. 

sea  covers  his  mother.  Nay,  Bridget,  you  shall 
not  unclasp  my  hands  till  I  have  your  promise  ; 
say  that  in  danger,  in  distress,  in  sickness,  he 
shall  be  to  you  as  your  own." 

"Mother  of  God,  be  my  witness!"  fervently 
ejaculated  Bridget.  "  He  shall  have  half  my 
heart,  half  my  strength.  When  I  forego  my 
hold  of  him,  sorrow  be  my  portion.  But  you 
will  live,  Dora  Callan,  and  my  child  may  call 
you  mother  by  manes  of  this  boy  of  ours ;  for 
now  he  is  mine,  you  see,  and  I  mane  to  dispose 
of  him." 

A  faint  smile  played  upon  the  lips  of  the  sink- 
ing girl  in  answer  to  this  sportive  sally,  and  then 
closing  her  eyes,  she  folded  her  hands  upon  her 
breast  in  silent  prayer.  The  prophetic  spirit  in 
which  the  young  creature  had  spoken  was  soon 
apparent.  A  rapid  change  passed  over  the  fair 
face  :  the  power  of  utterance  suddenly  failed ; 
bat  while  life  lingered  her  grateful  and  beseech- 
ing eyes  were  raised  to  the  face  of  Bridget,  at 
whose  breast  the  creature  so  soon  to  be  orphaned 
nestled  in  comfort. 

The  next  night  a  white  hammock  was  lowered 
into  the  sea  beneath  the  solemn  starlight.  The 
passengers  and  crew  stood  round  whilst  the  cap- 
tain read  the  funeral  service;  his  voice  often 
faltered,  and  at  intervals  a  deep  sob  was  heard  ; 
it  burst  from  the  bosom  of  Bridget  Ryan,  who, 


THE  HEROINE  OF  THE  HUON.       113 

with  both  children  clasped  in  her  arms,  kneeled 
upon  the  deck.  When  the  solemn  ceremony- 
was  over,  and  the  fair  form  of  Dora  had  sunk 
many  fathoms  to  its  deep  and  silent  grave,  a  low 
wail  of  excessive  anguish  broke  from  the  lips  of 
Bridget. 

"  Dora  Callan  !  Dora  Callan  ! "  she  at  length 
uttered,  with  a  deep  fervency  of  tone  which  was 
in  itself  eloquence;  "  why  have  you  gone  from 
me  —  from  me  whose  heart  loved  y^ou  like  its 
life  ?  But  who  may  keep  what  the  Great  Maker 
wants  ?  Bright  be  your  place  among  the  angels 
—  welcome  be  your  fair  face  where  all  is  beauti- 
ful!  Och !  shall  I  ever  forget  how  sweet  you 
were,  how  kind,  how  loving  !  When  you  wake 
from  your  great  winding-sheet,  Dora  mine,  may 
we,  who  mourn  you  now,  meet  you  rejoicing." 

Then  her  voice  sunk  till  its  murmurs  became 
inaudible  ;  Vv'hile  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  on 
the  deck,  she  covered  over  the  children  and 
bathed  them  with  her  tears.  Impressed  by  the 
scene,  all  stood  in  deep  silence,  watching  the 
subsiding  struggles  of  her  grief.  ,  Almost  un- 
marked a  change  of  weather  had  gradually  come 
on,  and  a  more  than  common  activity  on  board 
declared  that  some  exigency  was  approaching. 
Low  winds  seemed  from  afar  gathering  the 
clouds  that  soon  overspread  the  sky,  till  the 
hollow  dismal  wailings  became  long  howls,  and 
10^ 


114       THE  HEROINE  OF  THE  HUON. 

hoarse  shrieks,  and  the  darkness  grew  into  black- 
est nig-ht.  Oh,  for  the  pen  of  Cooper  to  portray 
the  storm  which  broke  above  the  devoted  ship, 
while  it  reeled  and  staggered  amid  the  rage  of 
contending  winds  and  boiling  seas  !  The  captain 
and  the  crew  did  their  duty  firmly.  Perhaps 
there  is  no  energy,  no  courage,  equal  to  that  of 
the  English  sailor ;  no  sense  of  duty  so  high,  so 
perfectly,  so  nobly  fulfilled.  Vain  were  all  their 
efforts ;  the  sea  surged  above  the  yards,  sweep- 
ing down  on  the  doomed  bark,  which  would 
bravely  rise  again  and  again  above  the  briny 
deluge.  Desperately  she  ploughed  her  wild 
way,  till  at  midnight  she  became  a  total  wreck 
on  one  of  the  small  islands  in  D'Entrecastreaux's 
channel. 

The  morning  broke  at  length,  but  it  came 
rather  to  reveal  than  to  relieve  their  distress. 
When  the  vessel  struck,  a  shriek,  compounded 
of  many  wild  voices,  pierced  the  thick  darkness  ; 
the  masts  went  by  the  board,  a  rushing  sea  swept 
the  deck,  carrying  many  despairing  wretches 
into  the  engulfing  waters;  but  with  the  grey 
drear  light  of  morning  came  a  lull.  The  cap- 
tain, who  still  survived,  with  some  few  of  the 
passengers  and  crew,  felt  deep  anxiety  for  the 
fate  of  Bridget,  and  was  seeking  her,  inquiring 
for  her,  when  she  crept  forth  with  the  two  chil- 
dren in  her  arms.     "  The  bravest  heart  on  board, 


THE  HEROINE  OF  THE  HUON.       115 

by  heavens ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  beheld  her. 
"  Hope  on,"  he  continued,  springing  forward, 
"  we  are  descried ;  there  are  boats  making 
towards  us ! "  At  these  words  Bridget  started 
to  her  feet,  just  as  a  tremendous  wave  struck  the 
ship,  and,  sweeping  the  deck,  carried  her  and 
the  children  overboard.  Much  is  said  of  human 
selfishness  in  the  emergencies  of  great  danger, 
and  much  is  of  course  exhibited,  but  so  power- 
fully had  Bridget's  example  and  beauty  of  char- 
acter impressed  her  fellow-sufferers,  that  the  most 
vital  interest  was  felt  in  her  fate,  and,  at  this 
catastrophe,  many  cried  aloud,  "  Save  her  !  Save 
her ! "  while  at  the  moment  hopeless  of  saving 
themselves.  The  boats,  which  had  put  off  from 
Brune  Island,  redoubled  their  efforts.  Bridget 
succeeded  in  grasping  a  fragment  of  timber,  and 
thus  kept  herself  afloat;  the  heavy  rain,  which 
had  been  some  time  falling,  increasing,  refreshed 
her,  and  the  sea  subsided,  as  if  calmed  by  the 
tears  of  heaven  ;  the  cheering  voices  of  the  ap- 
proaching men  kept  alive  the  pulses  of  her  heart, 
and  at  last  Bridget  and  the  children  were  res- 
cued, the  little  helpless  creatures,  wonderful  to 
relate,  alive.  This,  however,  she  scarcely  Avas 
herself;  yet  amid  what  were  apparently  the 
pangs  of  death,  her  sense  of  duty  was  still  para- 
mount. Carried  on  shore,  soothing  voices  and 
succoring  hands  were  soon  around  her,  but  she 


116       THE  HEROINE  OF  THE  HUON. 

made  a  feeble  effort  to  retain  the  children,  while 
she  exclaimed,  with  what  strength  remained  to 
her,  "Michael  Callan."  The  name  was  re- 
peated aloud  by  those  who  marked  her  anxiety, 
and  immediately  a  young  man,  who  had  helped 
to  man  the  boat  that  saved  her,  pressed  eagerly 
forward.  "  Here  I  am,"  he  cried;  "  what  would 
you  with  Michael  Callan  ?  "  He  was  directed  to 
the  dying  woman ;  he  knelt  down  beside  her. 
Bridget  opened  her  eyes,  which  a  moment  be- 
fore had  been  closing  in  the  last  extreme  of  ex- 
haustion and  faintness,  "Are  you  he?"  she 
asked.  "  I  am,  Michael  Callan."  "  Now  the 
Father  of  mercy  and  all  his  saints  be  praised ! " 
she  faintly  ejaculated.  "  Michael  Callan,  here 
is  your  child  —  Dora's  Child!"  and  with  these 
words  her  long  sustained  energies  forsook  her, 
and  she  sunk  insensible  into  the  arms  of  the 
people  near  her. 

The  story  soon  spread  through  the  colony,  and 
by  the  time  Bridget  was  restored  to  health  and 
strength,  she  found  herself  possessed  of  a  little 
fortune.  All  who  like  herself  had  survived  the 
wreck,  bore  testimony  to  her  Christian  charity 
and  heroism,  and  from  ever}^  quarter  of  the  island 
subscriptions  in  her  behalf  poured  in.  Her  home 
was  on  the  banks  of  the  Huon ;  thither  every 
year  Michael  Callan  and  his  boy  make  a  pil- 
grimage to  the  fond  friend  of  Dora,  and  the  faith- 
ful preserver  of  her  child. 


MJm&^.-:::^^.^;:ji^^m^^i:^^M 


&mn^^ 


117 


HYMN  OF  NATURE. 

.         BY     FELICIA     HEMANS. 

O  !  BLEST  art  thou  whose  steps  may  rove 
Through  the  green  paths  of  vale  and  grove, 
Or,  leaving  all  their  charms  below. 
Climb  the  wild  mountain's  airy  brow ! 
And  gaze  afar  o'er  cultured  plains, 
And  cities  with  their  stately  fanes, 
And  forests  that  beneath  thee  lie, 
And  ocean  mingling  with  the  sky. 

For  man  can  show  thee  nought  so  fair 
As  Nature's  varied  marvels  there ; 
And  if  thy  pure  and  artless  breast 
Can  feel  their  grandeur,  thou  art  blest ! 
For  thee  the  stream  in  beauty  flows, 
For  thee  the  gale  of  summer  blows ; 
And,  in  deep  glen  and  wood-walk  free. 
Voices  of  joy  still  breathe  for  thee. 

But  happier  far,  if  there  thy  soul 

Can  soar  to  Him  who  made  the  whole ; 

If  to  thine  eye  the  simplest  flower 

Portray  His  bounty  and  His  power ; 

If,  in  whate'er  is  bright  or  grand. 

Thy  mind  can  trace  His  viewless  hand ; 


118  HYMN    OF    NATURE. 

If  Nature's  music  bid  thee  raise 
Thy  song  of  gratitude  and  praise. 

If  heaven  and  earth,  with  beauty  fraught, 
Lead  to  His  throne  thy  raptured  thought ; 
If  there  thou  lovest  His  love  to  read, 
Then,  wanderer,  thou  art  blest  indeed! 


J 


119 


THE  SACRIFICE. 

A  STORY  OF  THE  LAST  WHITE  ROSE. 

"  Red  roses  are  the  fashion  now-a-days,  fair 
lady,"  was  the  exclamation  of  a  knightly-Jooking 
personage,  as,  forcing  himself  without  much 
trouble  through  a  break  in  the  hedge,  he  stood 
by  the  side  of  the  Lady  Somerton  :  -  Red  roses 
are  the  fashion,  yet  I  perceive  you  gather  only 
the  white  ones  ;  now  if  you  will  accept  my  aid 
in  the  assortment  of  your  posy,  I  shall  enliven  it 
with  the  blushing  flower.  See,  too,  how  much 
hardier  these  are  than  those  pale,  sickly  buds." 

Lady  Somerton  was  startled  by  the  first  words 
which  fell  upon  her  ear,  and  the  pale  roses  trem- 
bled in  her  grasp;  but  ere  Sir  Pierre  Brandon's 
speech  was  concluded,  she  recovered,  by  an  eflbrt 
of  the  will,  at  least  the  semblance  of  composure. 
She  could  not  but  return  the  courteous  greeting 
of  Sir  Pierre,  for  though  unknown  to  him  by 
any  formal  introduction,  she  had  received,  three 
days  previously,  a  signal  service  at  his  hands. 
Whether  in  search  of  white  roses  or  wild  flow- 
ers, we  cannot  tell,  but  she  had  been  tempted  on 
that  occasion  to  wander  beyond  the  precincts  of 
the  park,  and,  unconscious  till  too  late  that  the 


120 


THE    SACRIFICE. 


country  was  being  scoured  by  the  king's  troops, 
had  been  rudely  accosted  by  a  party  of  soldiers. 
Utterly  ignorant  at  that  time  of  the  meaning  of 
their  questions,  she  was  yet  painfully  alarmed  by 
their  rude  and  imperious  behavior  ;  when  Sir 
Pierre,  riding  up,  dispersed  them  by  a  word,  and 
then,  with  the  chivalry  of  a  soldier  and  a  gentle- 
man, escorted  Edith  and  her  old  attendant  to  the 
gates  of  Somerton  Park.  To  her  deliverer  she 
therefore  felt  truly  grateful,  and  though  she  could 
have  wished  that  he  had  caught  her  in  some 
other  act  than  that  of  gathering  white  roses,  she 
accepted  his  offer  in  as  playful  a  manner  as  she 
could  command,  and  added  the  Lancastrian  bou- 
quet with  which  he  supplied  her  to  those  York- 
ist buds  she  had  already  gathered. 

"  Now  have  you  a  most  loyal  offering,"  ex- 
claimed Sir  Pierre,  striving  to  meet  with  his  own 
searching  glance  the  soft  eyes  of  Edith  Somer- 
ton,—  "meet  even  for  the  wise  Tudor  himself, 
since  you  retain  just  enough  fair  blossoms  — 
poor  things  that  they  are  —  to  remind  him  of  the 
wife  he  has  raised  to  share  his  throne." 

She  did  not  look  up,  though  she  felt  her  cheek 
grow  pallid  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  rebel 
blood  return  with  added  vigor  to  dye  it  crimson. 
How  many  a  warm  rejoinder  hovered  on  her  lip, 
which  prudence  warned  her  to  restrain  !  But 
she  only  murmured, 


THE    SACRIFICE.  121 

"  Alas  !  that  a  sweet  flower  should  ever  have 
been  chosen  as  the  type  of  civil  discord  !  Flow- 
ers, fit  emblems  only  of  peace  and  joy;  —  flow- 
ers, a  remnant  of  paradise;  —  flowers,  which  in 
their  fragrant  breaths,  and  beauteous  forms,  bear 
a  message  from  heaven,  that  earth  was  not  made 
only  for  sin  and  woe.  Flowers  !  what  have  ye 
to  do  with  violence  and  death,  with  orphans 
tears,  and  widows'  wailing?" 

"  To  deck  the  conqueror's  brow,  fair  lady." 

"  Unmeet  —  unmeet." 

By  this  time  they  had  approached  the  house, 
and  though  for  many  reasons  Edith  little  desired 
to  introduce  a  stranger  guest,  and  that  guest  a 
Lancastrian  knight,  she  felt  that  to  ofler  a 
marked  slight  to  Sir  Pierre  would  be  the  most 
dangerous  policy  she  could  pursue.  Yet  her 
voice  trembled  as  she  said,  "  Sir  Hugh  Somerton 
desires  to  thank  you  for  the  service  you  rendered 
his  wife  ;  and  though  at  this  moment  he  is  not  at 
home,  and  I  therefore  will  not  ask  you  to  enter, 
he  would  blame  me,  if  I  did  not  urge  you  to 
favor  him  with  a  visit  ere  you  quit  our  neigh- 
borhood." 

"  Then,  lady,  I  must  pay  it  before  sunset;  so, 
by  your  leave,  I  will  wait  on  him  in  an  hour." 

Lady  Somerton  hurried  to  her  chamber,  where, 
casting  one  rapid  glance  around,  to  be  certain 
that  she  was  alone,  she  gave  vent  to  her  feelings 
11 


122  THE    SACRIFICE. 

in  a  flood  of  tears.  Bat  this  was  no  hour  for  the 
indulgence  of  such  feminine  weakness  ;  and  soon 
removing  all  outward  signs  of  her  emotion,  she 
separated  the  two  bouquets,  although  terrified  in 
the  midst  of  the  task  by  the  sound  of  a  bell  which 
proclaimed  the  quick  flight  of  time.  Then  de- 
scending from  her  chamber,  she  entered  her 
husband's  favorite  room,  in  which  an  air  of  lux- 
ury and  refinement  prevailed,  unusual  at  that 
period.  But  Sir  Hugh's  father  had  been  a  mer- 
chant-knight in  the  days  of  the  merchant-mon- 
arch Edward  the  Fourth,  and  this  circumstance 
might  account  for  the  costly  carpet,  and  sumptu- 
ous hangings,  which  decorated  the  apartment. 
Till  the  lady  entered  it  was  untenanted,  which 
quickly  perceiving,  she  approached  a  seemingly 
ponderous  cabinet  of  ebony ;  scarcely,  however, 
had  she  touched  a  spring,  when,  revolving  on 
hinges,  it  swung  forward  by  its  own  weight, 
revealing  a  secret  door  in  the  wall.  The  next 
moment  Edith  stood  within  a  rude  and  narrow 
chamber,  but  as  she  advanced  towards  the  occu- 
pant of  this  retreat,  she  would  have  kneeled  to 
offer  a  subject's  homage,  had  he  not  caught  her 
hands  and  prevented  the  obeisance.  She  was  in 
the  presence  of  one,  whom  history  scarcely  knows 
how  to  designate.  For,  as  each  cycle  passes  by, 
rescuing  stern  truths  from  the  disguises  heaped 
upon  them  by  ignorance,  or  power,  or  prejudice, 


THE    SACRIFICE.  123 

the  more  inclined  are  we  to  recognize  Richard 
Plantagenet  in  him  who  has  so  long  been  re- 
garded as  the  impostor,  Perkin  Warbeck  ! 

"  I  come,  your  highness,"  said  Lady  Somer- 
ton,  "  at  my  husband's  bidding,  to  ask  if  there  be 
any  service  I  can  render  in  his  absence  to  break 
the  tedium  of  the  day.  He  is  himself  riding 
towards  Exeter,  to  put  the  despatch  intended  for 
the  Lady  Katherine  into  the  hands  of  the  trusty 
serving  man  who  is  deputed  as  the  messenger. 
And,  my  liege,  an  hour  after  sunset  —  " 

"  A  horse  will  be  ready  to  convey  me  to  the 
sole  refuge  my  hard  destiny  yields  me." 

"  'T  is  but  for  a  brief  interval  your  faithful 
friends  advise  their  prince  to  secure  his  safety  in 
the  Holy  Sanctuary  of  Beaulieu.  Only  while 
they  gather  his  scattered  troops  to  rally  round 
his  banner." 

"  While  I  must  rest  in  idleness !  By  Heaven  ! 
my  heart  and  mind  will  rot  away  the  body,  even 
as  the  sword's  rust  eats  into  the  scabbard  I " 

"  My  king  !  " 

"  Forgive  me,  lady.  Rather  let  us  speak  of 
the  time  —  for  surely  it  will  come  —  when  a 
grateful  monarch  shall  prove  his  obligations  to 
his  tried  friends." 

Not  till  that  moment  did  Edith  perceive  that 
in  her  agitation  she  had  provided  herself  with 
the  red  roses  instead  of  the  fair  Yorkist  blossoms, 


124 


THE    SACKIFICE. 


which  she  had  intended  to  present  to  her  guest! 
He  divined  the  cause  of  her  emotion,  for  as  tears 
again  flowed,  she  exclaimed,  "  Oh  !  how  evil  an 
omen ! " 

"  By  defying,  I  will  overrule  the  omen.  Give 
them  me,  lady ;  and  though  they  wither  on  my 
heart,  I  will  keep  them  for  my  coronation  —  it 
will  be  useful  in  prosperity  to  be  reminded  of  an 
hour, like  this." 

"  Rather  would  I  sacrifice  the  best  blood  of  my 
house!"  exclaimed  Lady  Somerton,  trampling 
the  flowers  beneath  her  feet. 

"  Hush  ! "  said  her  guest ;  "  tempt  not  fate  by 
the  ofler  of  a  sacrifice.  Unhappy  Richard  !  "  and 
he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Edith  endeavored  to  soothe  and  comfort  her 
guest,  and  though  anxious  to  be  the  first  to  en- 
counter Sir  Hugh  on  his  return,  lingered  in 
cheering  conversation  for  another  half-hour  :  and 
when  she  quitted  the  chamber,  or  closet,  as  it 
might  more  properly  be  called,  she  did  so  by  a 
different  outlet  to  that  by  which  she  had  entered. 
The  secret  recess,  alas  !  so  often  necessary  in 
the  troublous  times  of  which  we  write,  commu- 
nicated also  with  the  chapel,  where  beneath  their 
sculptured  tombs  reposed  many  of  Sir  Hugh's 
ancestors.  The  walls  were  hung  with  martial 
trophies,  and  implements  of  war,  as  even  to  this 
day  we  find  —  so  strong  is  old  custom  —  religious 


THE    SACRIFICE.  125 

fanes,  polluted  by  mementos  of  strife  and  blood- 
shed. Here,  to  her  astonishment,  she  found  two 
stranger  monks  in  company  with  Ralph  AVil- 
loughby,  the  busy  idler  —  the  wild  madcap,  but 
faithful  servant  —  the  jester  of  the  family.  He 
was  in  the  entire  confidence  of  his  master,  as 
indeed  his  presence  there  testified,  for  none  other 
could  have  obtained  access  to  the  chapel.  Hur- 
riedly he  related  that  the  holy  men  belonged  to 
the  fraternity  of  Beaulieu ;  that  they  had  come 
hither  provided  with  a  cowl  and  gown  in  which 
to  disguise  the  fugitive,  the  more  safely  to  con- 
duct him  to  their  sanctuary. 

"Is  Sir  Hugh  returned?"  exclaimed  Lady 
Somerton,  with  anxiety;  "knows  he  of  your 
plans?" 

"  Lady,  we  come  at  his  suggestion,"  replied 
the  elder  of  the  two,  "  ostensibly  to  perform  mass 
for  the  soul  of  his  brother ;  the  anniversary  of 
whose  death  this  chances  to  be,  Heaven  forgive 
the  deception!"  and  the  monk  crossed  himself 
devoutly  as  he  added,  "  we  will  perform  seven 
masses  as  an  atonement." 

"Will  your  masses,"  chimed  in  Ralph,  the 
jester,  who  could  be  earnest  enough  when  occa- 
sion called,  —  "  will  your  masses,  holy  fathers, 
spirit  away  the  foul  fiend  who  I  think  now  holds 
Sir  Hugh  prisoner  in  the  east-chamber,  in  the 


126  THE    SACRIFICE. 

shape  of  that  Tudor  knight,  Sir  Pierre  Bran- 
don?" 

Lady  Somerton  started  and  turned  pale  with 
fear  —  for  the  east-chamber  was  that  from  which 
she  had  entered  the  fugitive's  retreat ;  and  but 
too  truly  did  she  dread  that  Sir  Pierre  was  even 
now  on  some  secret  service  of  the  king  to  arrest 
his  steps.  Much  was  there  in  their  converse 
that  morning  which  led  to  this  belief,  and  quickly 
did  she  communicate  her  fears  to  the  party  in  the 
chapel.  For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence, 
which  Ralph  was  the  first  to  break. 

"  It  is  not  possible,"  said  he,  "  to  warn  Sir 
Hugh  of  our  fears  or  our  plans ;  but  if  you  will 
take  the  fool's  advice,  it  is  this.  Quickly  let  him 
don  the  garments  you  have  brought,  and  thus 
our  prince  may  escape  at  once,  instead  of  wait- 
ing till  sunset,  the  time  proposed.  I  will  take 
his  place,  and  if  they  try  the  cabinet  door,  will 
hold  out  as  stoutly  as  if  the  right  man  were 
there,  and  thus  give  time  for  him  to  escape." 

The  plan  seemed  so  judicious  and  feasible, 
that  it  was  instantly  agreed  on,  and  quickly  put 
into  execution;  and  the  half-hour  thus  gained, 
it  might  be,  protracted  for  a  few  months  the  lib- 
erty of  hhn  whom  we  yet  scarcely  know  how  to 
name,  or  reserved  his  life  for  a  sadder  ending 
than  the  sword's  point  would  have  proved.     But 


THE    SACRIFICE.  127 

not  without  a  sacrifice  could  such  a  respite  be 
purchased ! 

Prophetic  were  the  fears  of  Lady  Somerton. 
The  faithful  Ralph  immured  himself  in  the  secret 
chamber,  and  she  remained  in  trembling  prayer 
within  the  chapel.  The  reverend  fathers  joined 
in  her  devotions,  for  so  far  did  they  adhere  to 
their  original  plan,  that  they  determined  on  join- 
ing the  hapless  Perkin  at  a  spot  where  they  had 
appointed  to  meet  after  sunset.  But  for  a  while 
we  must  follow  Sir  Hugh  to  the  east-chamber. 

On  his  return  home  he  had  hastened  to  that 
favorite  apartment,  and  his  hand  was  actually 
on  the  spring  which  would  have  opened  the  way 
to  the  secret  retreat,  when  Sir  Pierre  Brandon 
was  announced.  Ostensibly  he  came  to  pay  a 
visit  of  civility,  but  the  mask  was  quickly  thrown 
off,  when,  raising  a  whistle  to  his  lips,  one  shrill 
note  filled  the  room  with  soldiers,  who,  in  the 
king's  name,  had  orders  to  search  the  mansion 
for  the  traitor!  Ere,  however,  a  sword  was 
drawn,  he  offered  a  free  pardon  to  Sir  Hugh,  for 
all  past  connivance,  on  condition  that  he  gave  up 
the  offender.  With  the  chivalry  of  his  age  and 
character,  he  would  probably  have  refused  under 
any  circumstances  to  surrender  the  defenceless 
to  the  strong  arm  of  constituted  authority  ;  how 
then  could  he  betray  him,  whom  he  devoutly 
considered  his  lawful  sovereign  ?    Calling  loudly 


12S 


THE    SACRIFICE. 


on  the  few  retainers  who  were  within  hearinor 

o 

he  placed  his  back,  as  if  by  accident,  against  the 
ebony  cabinet,  determined  to  defend  that  en- 
trance to  the  last.  Soon  was  that  gorgeous 
chamber  the  scene  of  death  and  bloodshed,  for 
soldiers  and  retainers  both  fell  in  the  strife.  It 
was  clear,  however,  that  Sir  Pierre  had  obtained 
some  clue  to  the  secret  entrance,  for  to  the  cabi- 
net were  the  soldiers'  efforts  directed,  and  but 
a  moment  before  it  was  forced,  did  Sir  Hugh  re- 
ceive his  mortal  wound ! 

The  whistle  —  the  cry  —  the  clash  of  swords 
—  had  aroused  the  prayerful  trio  in  the  chapel 
from  their  devotions ;  and  now  that  she  felt  the 
realization  of  her  fear,  all  the  woman  was  awa- 
kened in  her  bosom,  and  though  loyalty  and  faith 
towards  the  wanderer  slumbered  not  for  an  in- 
stant. Lady  Somerton  began  to  understand  the 
price  which  might  be  paid  for  them.  The  short- 
est way  to  the  east-chamber  was  through  the 
secret  closet ;  but,  alas !  there  was  a  strong 
reason  that  the  entrance  by  the  cabinet  should 
be  guarded  to  the  last  moment.  Swift,  there- 
fore, as  the  thought  which  dictated  her  action, 
she  fled  from  the  chapel  and  crossed  a  court-yard 
which  separated  it  from  the  main  building. 
There  were  none  to  impede  her,  and  no  one  did 
she  meet  but  a  frightened  waiting- woman.  Even 
as  she  rushed  into  the  chamber,  still  the  scene 


THE    SACRIFICE.  129 

of  mortal  contention,  the  rude  soldiers  instinc- 
tively made  way  for  the  wife  to  pass,  —  and 
almost  at  the  moment  that  Sir  Hugh  received 
his  death- wound,  and  the  secret  door  yielded, 
his  beloved  Edith  sank  upon  his  bosom,  and,  un- 
conscious of  his  state,  whispered,  in  accents  only 
intelligible  to  him,  the  flight  of  Perkin. 

When  the  door  opened,  honest  Ralph,  with 
arms  a-kimbo,  presented  himself  to  the  intru- 
ders ;  but  the  jest  and  the  jeer,  which,  as  a  privi- 
leged person,  hovered  on  his  lips,  were  driven 
back  by  the  sight  he  beheld.  And  while  the 
soldiers,  no  longer  impeded,  ransacked  the  secret 
passages  of  the  house,  Ralph,  the  jester,  and  two 
or  three  of  the  faithful  servants  who  had  re- 
mained unharmed  through  the  conflict,  conveyed 
their  master,  at  his  urgent  request,  through  the 
chamber  so  lately  tenanted  by  "  The  White 
Rose"  (as  his  followers  proudly  called  him,)  to 
the  old  chapel  we  have  mentioned  already.  It 
was  the  age  of  romance  in  love,  and  superstition 
in  religion,  and  even  at  that  moment,  when  the 
brave  Sir  Hugh  felt  assured  that  his  life-blood 
was  ebbing  away,  he  asked  that  his  soul  might 
quit  its  prison  of  clay  in  a  consecrated  place,  and 
the  parting  gaze  of  his  beloved  Edith  might  meet 
his  own  on  the  spot  where  their  marriage  vows 
were  solemnized.  Scarcely  an  hour  did  he  sur- 
vive, but  the  reverend  fathers  who  had  come  at 


130 


THE    SACRIFICE. 


his  bidding-  for  so  different  a  purpose,  had  time 
to  offer  him  the  last  consolations  of  religion  ;  and 
on  his  father's  tomb,  supported  by  the  arm  of  the 
fiiithful  Ralph,  and  solaced  —  as  love  can  solace, 
oven  such  an  hour  —  by  the  presence  of  Edith  — 
the  sacrifice  to  loyalty  was  completed  ! 

The  remainder  of  Perkin  Warbeck's  career, 
and  his  ignominious  fate  at  last,  belong  to  his- 
tory ;  and  this  is  not  the  place  to  moot  his  pre- 
tensions to  be  called  "  The  White  Rose  of  York." 
Certain  it  is  that  he  had  partisans  among  the 
regal  —  nay,  the  Plantagenets  themselves  —  and 
among  the  noble,  the  wealthy,  and  the  wise. 
They  must  have  had  better  opportunities  of 
judging  of  his  claims  than  can  be  found  by  the 
reflected  light  of  the  records  which  remain  ;  and 
allowing  for  the  fallibility  of  human  judgment, 
and  yet  more  largely  for  the  party  interests  of 
the  period,  it  is  not  difficult  to  understand  the 
sincere  belief  in  his  identity,  which  his  followers 
undoubtedly  entertained.  And,  alas!  Planta- 
genet  or  Fleming,  many  were  the  sacrifices  to 
the  last  banner  blazoned  with  the  White  Rose ! 


131 


THE   EXILE'S  FAREWELL. 

BY     ALICIA     JANE     SPARROW. 

Farewell   to   the    shore   where    my  father   is 
sleeping ! 
Oh,  sweet  and  unbroken  his  rest  may  it  be  ! 
Farewell  to  the  home  where  my  mother  is  weep- 
ing 
Her  first-born  —  her  dearest  —  alas  !  alien  me  ! 
Far  away  from  the  friends  whom  I  loved  in  my 
childhood, 
Estranged  from  the  hearts  that  I  clung  to  of 
yore, 
I  will  seek  me  a  rest  in  the  desert  or  wild-wood, 
And  my  country  and  kindred  shall  see  me  no 
more  ! 


132 


LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COUNTER; 

OR,  THE  DRAPERS  ASSISTANT. 

BY   MISS   CAMILLA   TOULMIN. 

"  We  do  too  little  feel  each  other's  pain, 
We  do  too  much  relax  the  social  chain 
Which  binds  us  to  each  other !  " 

L.  E.  L. 

CHAPTER   I. 

"  Send  away  the  tea  things,  Mrs.  M.,  it  is  past 
seven  o'clock ;  Herbert  must  have  dropped  in 
somewhere,  I  am  sure,"  was  the  exclamation  of 
Mr.  Markham  on  a  certain  winter's  evening,  as, 
crossing  his  slippered  feet  before  the  fire,  he  re- 
turned a  large  silver  watch  to  its  stand  on  the 
mantel-piece,  and  drew  from  his  pocket  the  even- 
ing paper. 

"  Aunt,"  whispered  a  gentle  voice  on  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  "  may  I  ask  Jenny  to  save  the 
tea-pot,  in  case  Herbert  should  not  have  had 
either  dinner  or  tea  ?  I  know  he  is  gone  about 
a  situation ;  he  took  down  the  particulars  of  two 
or  three  advertisements  this  morning." 

"  You  know,  Alice,  the  servants  —  "  Here, 
however,  Mrs.  Markham 's  speech  was  cut  short 
by  a  ring  of  the  bell,  so  we  can  only  surmise 


LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COUNTER.  133 

what  the  remainder  would  have  been.  Herbert 
had  returned ;  but  before  he  is  introduced  to  the 
reader,  let  me  say  a  few  words  about  his  uncle 
and  aunt,  the  present  host  and  hostess  of  him- 
self and  his  sister, 

Mr.  Markham  was  what  is  called  one  of  the 
most  "respectable"  men  in  the   cit}-,  and   that 
emphatic  word  comprehends  a  world  of  proprie- 
ties.    He  was  in  the  grocery  line  of  business,  — 
his  shop  situated  in  one  of  those  narrow,  crooked 
streets,  the  tall  houses  of  which,  it  is  said,  (if 
not  swept  away  to  make  healthy  openings  and 
modern    improvements,)    may    still    outlast   the 
buildings  of  to-day.     In  that  house  had  he  begun 
business ;  and  in  that  house  Mr.  John,  his  only 
son,  married  and  taken  into  partnership  long  ao-o, 
now  resided;  his  "respectable"  parent  having 
of  late  3'ears  preferred  the  luxuries  of  a  morning 
and  evening  ride  in  his  one-horse  chaise  to  and 
from  his  suburban  residence.     It  is  not  worth 
while  to  say  on  which  side  of  London  this  was 
chosen,  for  the  suburbs  have  a  strong  family  like- 
ness, differing  only  as  much  as  rich  and  poor 
relations  may  do.     They  all  have  their  Minerva 
Terraces  and  Belle  Vue  Cottages,  and  now-a- 
days  Albert  Eoads  and  Victoria  Squares.    They 
all,  too,  have  their  little-great  people,  from  the 
reigning  beauty,  whose  Sunday  attire  sets  the 
fashions  of  the  place,  to  perchance  some  county 
12 


V-:^ 


134  LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COUNTER,' 

magistrate  or  ci-devant  lord  mayor,  who  is  looked 
on  as  a  second  Solon,  providentially  sent  to  en- 
lighten the  world.  Trifling  as  such  weaknesses 
seem,  at  which  we  are  all  inclined  to  smile,  grave 
mischief  arises  from  them  ;  for  almost  all  our 
social  evils  arise  from  a  want  of  that  extended 
sympathy,  which,  stretching  over  the  barriers  of 
class,  should  communicate  good  —  like  light  — 
without  being  impoverished,  nay,  multiplying  it 
rather,  as  by  reflecting  mirrors.  Now  the  sys- 
tem of  cliques,  whether  they  be  of  the  witty  or 
weahhy,  or  of  the  little-great  people  of  a  subur- 
ban neighborhood,  strikes  at  the  root  of  all  this. 
It  hedges  a  little  party  round  with  a  thick  stone 
wall,  impervious  to  mortal  sight,  while  the  mel- 
ancholy part  of  the  afTair  is  that  the  poor  deluded 
prisoners  think  their  dungeon  is  the  world. 
Mr.  Markham's  world  consisted  of  the  people 
with  whom  he  transacted  business  in  the  day; 
(he  always  dined  with  his  son  in  town,)  and  the 
two  or  three  neighbors  they  visited ;  but  as  they 
all  belonged  to  the  same  genus,  I  do  not  think  he 
ever  knocked  out  a  cube  of  his  wall,  through 
which  to  take  a  peep  beyond.  His  only  daugh- 
ter, an  elderly  young  lady  of  about  thirty,  and 
his  wife,  completed  the  home  circle,  to  which 
his  orphan  nephew  and  niece  had  lately  been 
introduced. 

The  father  of  Herbert  and  Alice  had  been  a 


OR,    THE    draper's    ASSISTANT.  135 

very  different  character  from  his  elder  brother 
He  had  been  a  music  master  in  a  provincial 
town ;  and  though  early  left  a  widower,  had 
brought  up  his  children  in  much  respectability. 
But  so  precarious  did  he  know  such  a  means  of 
existence  as  his  own  to  be,  that  it  had  long  been 
the  wish  of  his  heart  to  establish  Herbert  in 
trade.  Of  his  brother  he  knew  little  else  than 
that  he  was  a  prosperous  man  ;  and  when  he 
found  that  an  illness  of  some  standing  had  as- 
sumed a  dangerous  turn,  it  was  a  very  natural 
thing  to  leave  his  children  to  the  guardianship 
of  his  only  relative,  and  two  hundred  pounds, 
the  savings  of  a  life,  to  his  care  till  they  should 
be  of  age.  Mr.  Markham  considered  that  the 
only  sensible  wish  "  poor  Charles"  had  ever  ex- 
pressed was  that  Herbert  should  be  a  tradesman; 
it  met  his  cordial  approbation  ;  but  as  for  advanc- 
ing any  of  the  two  hundred  pounds  for  appren- 
ticing him,  he  should  do  nothing  of  the  kind. 
The  youth  was  nearly  seventeen  ;  let  him  get  a 
situation  which  would  "  lead  to  something." 
Alice,  who  was  three  years  her  brother's  senior, 
was  equally  desirous  of  independence  ;  and  per- 
haps the  fondest  hope  of  both  their  hearts  was 
that  they  should  not  be  separated.  Yet  they 
both  knew  that  there  were  few  situations  in 
which  this  would  be  the  case ;  therefore  was 
Alice    proportionally   grateful   when  she    heard 


136  LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COUNTER; 

from  Herbert,  on  that  eventful  evening,  the  cause 
which  had  detained  him  so  late.  He  had  found 
employment  for  himself  and  sister  as  assistants 
in  an  extensive  drapery  establishment ;  nothing 
remaining  to  be  settled  except  Alice  seeing  the 
parties,  and  the  necessary  reference  to  their 
uncle  being  made. 

What  a  benevolent  dispensation  of  Providence 
it  is,  that  youth  soaring  aloft  on  the  wings  of 
hope  and  expectation,  and  looking  at  life  as  it 
will  look  through  its  own  brightly  colored  imag- 
ination, should  find  in  its  own  untried  spirit  the 
strongest  weapon  of  defence  against  the  world 
with  w^hich  it  must  wrestle !  How  else  could 
the  suffering  youth  of  this  great  metropolis,  not 
counted  by  tens  and  by  hundreds,  but  by  tens  of 
thousands,  live  through  their  fearful  course  of 
slavery,  in  numbers  sufficient  to  make  at  last 
their  deep-toned  cry  audible.  Alas  !  alas  !  we 
take  no  account  of  the  myriads  who  have  s«ink 
after  their  term  of  suffering  into  the  crowded 
sepulchres  or  the  dense  city.  And  yet  how  great 
a  thing  is  every  human  heart,  with  its  little  world 
of  hopes  and  fears,  its  warm  affections,  its  trust- 
ing faith,  its  bright  imaginings  !  And  how  deso- 
late, indeed —  desolate  as  the  last  survivor  of  a 
world's  wreck  —  must  that  one  be  who  hath  not 
some  dear  ones  to  mourn  and  rejoice  with  him. 
So  desolate,  that  I  would  fain  believe  the  earth 


OR,    THE    draper's    ASSISTANT.  137 

counts  them  by  units ;  and  least  of  all  do  I  be- 
lieve they  would  be  found  among  the  struggling 
and  oppressed,  for  such  have  warm  sympathies. 
But  this  is  a  mass  of  misery,  past,  irrevocable, 
though  good  for  us  sometimes  to  think  on ;  there 
is  another  picture  yet  more  painful,  because  more 
present  to  our  sight,  and  more  disastrous  in  its 
resuhs.  The  myriads  who  do  not  die,  but  pur- 
chase a  lingering  life  by  the  sacrifice  of  health 
for  its  remainder;  or  worse  still,  the  myriads 
whose  minds  are  warped  by  evil  training,  and 
then  in  their  weakness  are  corrupted  by  over- 
powering temptation  —  who  are  themselves  made 
selfish  by  cruel  oppression,  and  whose  tempers 
are  irritated  (catching  the  infection  beyond  all 
cure)  by  the  endurance  of  constant  acts  of  petty 
tyranny  !  Reader,  is  this  a  digression  ?  Nay, 
only  a  dirge  ere  we  drew  up  the  curtain. 

The  establishment  of  Messrs.  Scrape,  Haveall 
and  Co.  was  situated  in  one  of  the  principal 
thoroughfares  of  London.  From  small  begin- 
nings it  had  grown  into  an  "  immense  concern  ;" 
over  the  squares  of  plate  glass,  each  of  which 
w^as  as  large  as  a  moderate  sized  dining  table, 
which  formed  the  shop  w^indows,  ran  a  line  of 
figures,   intimating   that   five   houses   had  been 

taken  in,  namely,  from  70, street,  to  74, 

inclusive.     Brussels  carpets  and  gilded  mirrors 
adorned  the  interior,  showing  to  advantage  the 
12^ 


138  LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COUNTER, 

gorgeous  fabrics  —  here  suspended  in  graceful 
festoons,  there  in  studied  but  apparently  careless 
disorder,  again  in  massive  heaps  —  conveying 
altogether  an  air  of  wealth  and  profusion,  that 
might  make  the  heart  tingle  with  a  just  pride  at 
the  power,  energy  and  resources  of  our  princely 
merchants.  But  Messrs.  Scrape  and  Haveall 
required  —  to  cut  their  satins,  measure  ribbons, 
fold  shawls,  and  perform  duties  of  the  like  kind, 
innumerable  as  are  the  stars  of  heaven  —  nearly 
one  hundred  assistants;  mostly  young  men  and 
women  between  twenty  and  thirty  years  of  age, 
though  a  few  of  them  had  passed  the  latter  period 
of  life,  and  some  —  Herbert  and  Alice  Markham 
for  instance  —  were  still  in  their  teens  ;  and  the 
heart  turning  to  such  blighted  youth  forgets 
wealth  and  splendor. 

It  was  towards  the  close  of  a  May  day  —  bright 
May,  when  the  hedgerows  are  sweet,  and  the 
hawthorn  in  blossom;  when  even  the  dusty 
lilacs  in  the  London  squares  put  forth  their  pale 
flowers,  and  the  smoke-begrimed  sparrows  twit- 
ter their  merriest  note.  But  the  large  rambling 
shop  of  Messrs.  Scrape,  Haveall  and  Co.,  with 
its  long  straight  counters,  and  winding  ways, 
where  the  houses  taken  in  joined  one  another, 
was  redolent  of  anything  rather  than  spring 
flowers.  The  atmosphere  formed  by  so  many 
human  breaths  being  of  that  close,  unpleasant 


OR,    THE    draper's    ASSISTANT.  139 

character  which  makes  the  buyer  of  a  yard  of 
ribbon  exclaim,  even  on  a  winter's  day,  "  How 
pleasant  to  get  into  the  fresh  air  again  !  "  Walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  shop,  occasionally  speaking 
in  courteous  phrase  to  a  customer,  and  often 
reprimianding  an  assistant,  was  a  man  of  about 
forty.  It  was  not  that  his  features  were  irregu- 
lar, but  there  shone  tli rough  them  so  cold  and 
hard  an  expression,  that  every  one  would  have 
called  him  an  ordinary  man.  He  walked  with  a 
shuffling  gait,  and  it  might  have  been  observed 
that  he  wore  a  peculiar  sort  of  gaiter,  the  better 
to  support  and  conceal  the  bandages  it  was  neces- 
sary to  Vv^ear.  For  as  linendrapers'  assistants 
are  never  allowed  to  sit,  except  during  the  few 
minutes  in  which  they  snatch  their  meals,  swol- 
len legs  and  absolute  disease  are  the  quite  com- 
mon results  of  fourteen  or  fifteen  hours'  stand- 
ing ;  and  this  is  a  low  average  to  what  is  and 
has  been  ! 

This  superintendent,  or  shop-walker,  —  hard- 
ened into  a  tyrant  by  the  wrongs  of  his  own 
youth,  —  was  speaking  to  a  lady  near  the  door, 
when  Alice  and  Herbert  chanced  to  meet,  with- 
out either  of  them  being  at  the  moment  engaged 
in  waiting  on  a  customer.  They  were  at  the 
further  end  of  the  shop,  and  instinctively  with- 
drew a  few  paces  till  they  brought  themselves 
behind  a  pile  of  goods,  which  shielded  them  from 


140  LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COUNTER  ; 

observation.  To  converse  in  business  hours, 
even  if  there  were  nothing  to  do,  was  a  forbidden 
pleasure  ;  nevertheless,  it  was  indulged  in  for  a 
few  moments,  especially  as  it  was  evident  Alice 
had  been  weeping  bitterly. 

"  No,  no,  not  for  myself,"  said  she,  in  answer 
to  his  inquiries  ;  "  it  is  that  you  should  have 
acted  their  falsehoods  as  I  have  seen  you  do 
to-day." 

"What  have  you  seen  me  do?"  replied  Her- 
bert, his  face  flashing,  and  yet  in  a  tone  of  voice 
that  implied  a  resolution  to  brave  out  aught  he 
had  done. 

"A  poor  trick;  a  lady  wished  some  silk  —  it 
was  not  that  what  you  showed  her  was  too  infe- 
rior for  her  taste,  but  it  was  not  dear  enough,  in 
her  opinion,  to  be  good;  you  saw  this  —  you 
feigned  to  fetch  another  piece,  but  you  only  cut 
that  in  half,  and  added  a  shilling  a  yard  to  the 
price." 

"  And  suppose  I  had  not  done  so,  she  would 
have  left  the  shop  without  purchasing," 

"  Well  ?  " 

"Do  3'ou  know  why  poor  Martin  was  dis- 
missed so  suddenly  last  week  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  hear  the  reason  exactly  ;  —  imper- 
tinence, they  said." 

"  A  refusal  to  do  such  things  as  these  ;  and  by 
a  perversity  of  fortune,  thrice  in  one  day,  per- 


OR, 


THE    draper's    assistant. 


141 


sons  who  spoke  to  him  went  away  without  buy- 
ing." 

"But,  Herbert,  wrong  cannot  come  right," 
returned  Alice,  raising  her  earnest,  tearful  eyes 
again  to  his. 

Herbert  put  his  hand  affectionately  upon  her 
shoulder,  and  was  about  to  speak,  when  an  angry 
voice,  crying  "  Markham  —  ]Mr.  ]\Iarkham,  w^here 
are  you  ? "  quickly  separated  them  ;  yet  was  it  a 
moment  they  could  never  forget;  a  seemingly 
trifling  incident,  like  many  we  can  all  bring  to 
mind,  that  take  fast  hold  of  the  memory  whether 
we  will  or  not.  In  reality,  it  was  the  moment  in 
which  the  sister  felt  that  the  influence  —  the  sort 
of  affectionate  authority  her  three  years'  seniority 
had  hitherto  given  her  —  was  over.  The,  chain 
of  habit  was  broken  ;  she  could  now  only  lure  to 
right  by  soft  persuasion  or  bright  example.  Yet 
one  had  overheard  their  discourse,  and  had  read 
both  their  hearts,  by  that  intuitive  knowledge  of 
human  nature  which  genius  gives.  For  genius 
lived  and  had  its  being  in  at  least  one  noble  heart 
behind  that  counter;  genius  of  that  high  order 
which  makes  its  possessor  the  pioneer  to  a  prom- 
ised land,  even  when  meeting,  as  more  or  less 
such  minds  so  often  do,  with  scorn  and  ingrati- 
tude; forming  as  it  were  the  living  angle  of  a 
wedge,  that  makes  the  opening,  to  die  perchance 
in  achieving  it. 


142  LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COUNTER; 

"  If  we  can  get  out  by  half-past  ten  to-night, 
will  you  take  a  stroll  with  me  ? "  said  William 
Howard  to  Herbert  Markham,  an  hour  or  so  after 
the  conversation  of  the  latter  with  his  sister,  to 
which  I  have  just  alluded. 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  —  I  am  sure,"  replied 
Herbert  in  a  hesitating  manner ;  "  I  half  prom- 
ised to  go  with  some  of  them  to  a  shilling  con- 
cert, and  to  supper  afterwards." 

"  You  had  better  change  your  mind,"  returned 
the  other  :  "  a  walk  in  the  fresh  air  —  say  across 
one  of  the  bridges  —  will  do  you  much  more 
good,  besides  costing  you  nothing." 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  mind  a  few  shillings." 

"  I  know  that ;  but  I  wish  3^ou  would  come 
^vith  me  instead ;  I  really  want  to  speak  to  you." 

It  seemed  that  William  Howard  could  always 
have  his  will,  when  he  took  the  trouble  of  trying 
for  it.  And  yet  none  of  them  could  account  for 
his  influence,  although  many  felt  it.  In  person 
he  was  slight  and  fair,  with  a  high  forehead, 
shaded  by  soft  brown  hair,  which,  though  he 
could  not  have  numbered  more  than  eight  and 
twenty  3'ears,  was  already  streaked  with  white  ; 
his  eyes  were  of  that  changing  color  which  so 
frequently  belongs  to  genius,  and  which  might 
be  called  chameleon  grey;  while,  alas  !  the  hec- 
tic cheek  and  frequent  cough  told  a  tale  of  suf- 
fering to  those  who  could  read  such  signs. 


OR,    THE    draper's    ASSISTANT.  143 

Herbert  scarcely  knew  how  it  was  that  he  had 
Deen  so  easily  persuaded  to  give  up  the  concert; 
yet,  certain  it  is,  that  towards  midnight  he  found 
himself  inhaling  the  pure  air  from  the  river,  in- 
stead of  the  vitiated  atmosphere  of  a  crowded 
room.     Moreover,  he  was  enjoying  the  conver- 
sation of  his  companion  extremely  ;  perhaps,  too, 
his  vanity  was  a  little  gratified  that  Howard  — 
whom  he  soon  discovered  to  be  no  ordinary  per- 
son—  should  think  it  worth  while  to  converse 
with  a  youth  like  himself  so  seriously ;  for  they 
had,  in  fact,  become  quite  confidential,  and  they 
spoke  of  their  mutual  hardships  with  the  freedom 
of  friendship.     They  stood  on  Waterloo  bridge, 
the  slanting  shadow  of  whose  arches  was  thrown 
distinctly  on  the  rippling  waters  by  the  bright 
moon  above,  as  it  seemed  to  rend  asunder  every 
now  and  then  the  fleecy  floating  clouds.     There 
was  a  hush,  a  repose  about  the  scene,  afl^ecting 
even  to  the  most  careless,  after  the  fatigue,  and 
noise,  and  feverish  hurry  of  the  day ;  while  north 
and  south,  and  east  and  west,  arose  the  darken- 
ing masses  of  domes  and  dwellings,  and  above 
them  the  lurid  glare  which,  once   observed,  is 
always  recognized  as  the  reflection  of  London's 
myriad  gas  lights. 

"  How  wealth  and  poverty  neighbor  one 
another  !"  said  William  Howard,  after  a  pause  ; 
"  and  yet  they  are  unknown  to  each  other,  and 


144  LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COUNTER; 

have  worlds  more  widely  different  than  thou- 
sands who  dwell  in  different  hemispheres.  This 
is  the  mischief,  —  the  intense  selfishness  which, 
having  no  faith  in  a  governing  Providence,  will 
plan  and  purpose  for  its  little  self,  according  to 
its  little  knowledge,  getting  entangled  in  an  in- 
extricable manner  in  its  vain  efforts  to  work  out 
truth  from  a  falsity,  'right'  out  of  'wrong.'  It 
is  this  fearful  selfishness,  this  want  of  human 
sympathy,  that  is  the  canker  stretching  through 
the  social  chain,  even  to  the  sufferings  of  you 
and  me." 

"  Perhaps ;"  replied  Herbert,  but  half  under- 
standing his  companion,  and  yet  deeply  inter- 
ested in  their  discourse ;  "  but  how  is  it  to  be 
cured  ?  I  have  heard  politicians  say  it  is  easy 
to  discover  a  fault,  but  often  very  difficult  to 
remove  it." 

"  By  working  a  different  problem,"  returned 
Howard,  whhout  attending  to  the  last  observa- 
tion,—  "by  working /ro?w  right,  whithersoever 
it  may  lead,  instead  of  struggling  after  happiness 
by  the  cross  roads  which  have  no  connection 
with  it.  It  is  by  moral  influence  —  no  other 
force  —  that  the  suffering  must  have  their  wrongs 
redressed.  The  light  will  come  —  the  dawn  is 
already  apparent." 

"Is  it  true  that  you  write  poetry?"  said  Her- 
bert; —  a  strange  rejoinder,  yet  not  mal-a-propos. 


OR,    THE    draper's    ASSISTANT.  145 

William  Howard  smiled  as  he  continued  —  "  I 
do  not  call  my  verses  by  so  dignified  a  name. 
Strange  that  to  those  who  find  no  such  channel  for 
their  thoughts,  the  effort  seems  extraordinary  — 
to  me  it  is  so  natural.  But,  Herbert  Markham, 
it  was  not  to  talk  of  poetry  that  I  asked  you  to 
walk  with  me.  I  have  lived  in  this  world  —  and 
a  beautiful  world  it  is  —  ten  years  longer  than 
you  have  ;  will  you  listen  to  me,  and  hear  my 
advice,  as  if  I  were  an  elder  brother  ?  " 

"That  will  I,  and  gratefully,"  said  Herbert 
with  real  emotion  —  for  he  felt  the  reverence, 
and  yet  elevation,  we  most  of  us  experience 
when  brought  into  communion  with  a  superior 
mind. 

"  You  are  surrounded  by  temptations  — strong 
ones  I  grant,  if  you  look  not  beyond  the  present 
moment — but  I  entreat  you  yield  not  to  them. 
Independent  of  your  own  loss,  in  choosing  a  path 
that  must  lead  to  ruin,  remember  that  it  is  by 
showing  ourselves  worthy  of  liberty  that  we 
slaves  shall  become  free.  Every  falling  off  of 
an  individual  is  a  backward  step  for  our  fellow- 
sufferers.  Already  a  small  body  is  organized, 
we  meet  often ;  will  you  add  another  voice, 
another  unit,  to  a  little  party  who,  working  out 
their  principles  in  the  light  of  religion  and  mo- 
rality, hope  confidently  to  bring  about  a  better 
order  of  things." 
13 


146  LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COUNTER; 

"  But  I  am  so  ignorant,"  exclaimed  Herbert ; 
"what  can  I  do?" 

"  Only  at  present  be  worthy  —  and  yield  not 
to  the  vile  trickeries  which  disgust  while  they 
degrade." 

"  And  do  you  never,"  replied  Herbert,  with 
real  astonishment,  "  and  do  you  never  name  two 
prices,  or  sell  faded  articles  at  candle-light,  or 
soil  things  to  make  them  seem  a  bargain,  or  —  " 

"  Never ! " 

*'  And  yet  have  been  seven  years  in  the 
house !" 

"  At  first  I  suffered  severely,  and  was  fined 
half  my  salary  for  my  indiscretions ;  for  the  list 
of  finable  offences  was  even  longer  then  than  it 
is  now.  But  by  one  of  those  consequences  —  I 
will  not  call  them  accidents  —  which  follow  us 
on  the  right  path,  in  some  unlooked-for  manner, 
it  has  happened  that  once  I  was  the  means  of 
preventing  an  extensive  robbery  ;  and  that  three 
of  Messrs.  Haveall's  best  customers  have  for 
years  insisted  on  being  waited  upon  by  myself 
—  these  reasons,  I  believe,  induce  them  to  put 
up  with  my  '  folly;'  and  I  tell  you  again  there 
is  a  little  band  who  will  not  lend  themselves  to 
these  vile  trickeries." 

"  And  yet  for  seven  years  you  have  not  bet- 
tered yourself     It  is  a  hopeless  prospect." 

"  Think  of  doing  right ;  and  the  bettering  for 


OR,  THE    draper's    ASSISTANT.  147 

all  of  us  will  come.  But  speaking  in  a  worldly 
point  of  view,  others  who  have  followed  the  plan 
have  been  benefited  personally  by  it ;  for  I  need 
scarcely  say  that  those  who  resist  this  sort  of 
temptation  are  not  likely  to  fall  into  the  habit  of 
seeking  bad  company ;  and  the  very  money  they 
have  saved  from  the  gulf  of  idle  dissipation  has 
enabled  them  to  start  in  business  for  themselves." 
"  And  you  —  why  not  you  ? " 
"  I  am  still  poor —  for  I  have  my  dear  mother 
to  support." 

"  What  is  it  your  little  band  are  struggling 
for?"  returned  Herbert. 

"  To  procure  an  alteration  of  existing  customs, 
by  which  our  time  of  daily  labor  may  be  reduced 
to  twelve,  or,  as  I  say,  ten  hours  daily.  I  am 
satisfied  it  only  remains  for  our  wrongs  to  be 
known  for  them  to  be  redressed;  but  the  evil 
has  grown  so  gradually  and  stealthily,  that  habit 
has  accustomed  the  world  to  its  frightful  reality, 
and,  slow  to  change,  it  cannot  at  first  understand 
the  miseries  of  this  monstrous  system.  Even 
those  who  are  the  greatest  sufferers,  the  most 
ruined  in  health  and  degraded  in  mind,  are  often 
the  last  to  stir  for  their  own  relief.  In  fact,  the 
movement  is  taking  place  among  the  few  whose 
establishments  are  conducted  on  upright  princi- 
ples towards  their  customers,  and  humanity  to 
their  servants;  for,  my  young  friend,  we  have 


148  LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COUNTER; 

the  sanction  of  some  employers  on  our  side,  and 
honor  and  gratitude  are  their  due.  It  is  our 
individual  misfortune  to  be  under  the  control  of 
narrow-minded  masters,  who  have  not  even  the 
understanding  to  feel  the  cruelty  they  are  prac- 
tising ;  the  men  who  always  clog  the  wheel  when 
social  advancement  is  intended.  And  this  is  to 
be  accounted  for  easily,  I  think.  But  come, 
promise  me  that  you  w^ill  be  one  of  us  —  if  only 
for  your  sweet  sister's  sake  —  promise  !  " 

"  I  do  ;  and  I  will  pray  to  God  to  help  me  keep 
such  promise.  Howard,  I  shall  never  forget  to- 
night ;  but  there,  you  are  coughing  again ;  is  it 
well  for  you  to  be  out  so  late?"  And  as  they 
walked  away  from  the  bridge,  the  deep  tones  of 
St.  Paul's  boomed  forth  the  midnight  hour ; 
while  William  Howard's  continued  cough  meas- 
ured time  —  the  mortal  term  of  his  life  —  in  a 
manner  as  significant ! 

CHAPTER    11. 

Three  months  passed  av,^ay,  changing  bright, 
flowering  May  to  fruitful,  golden  August.  Not 
that  the  different  seasons,  indeed,  were  much 
perceive!  in  the  establishment  of  Messrs.  Scrape, 
Haveall  and  Co. ;  unless  it  were  that  the  more 
balmy  the  air,  or  inviting  the  day  for  out-of-door 
enjoyment,  the  more  crowded  was  the  shop,  and 
the  later  was  it  kept  open  ;  and  when  at  last  it 


OR,  THE    draper's    ASSISTANT.  149 

was  closed,  there  were  the  goods  to  put  away, — 
so  that  it  was  no  unusual  thing  for  the  jaded  and 
worn-out  assistants  to  see  the  dawn  before  retir- 
ino-  to  their  yet  more  crowded  dormitories  — 
whence  to  arise,  in  three  or  four  hours,  with 
wearied  limbs  and  aching  head,  to  fulfil  again 
the  sad  routine  of  their  unvaried  life.  Yet 
though  the  glad  sunshine,  or  the  perfumed  sum- 
mer breezes,  made  little  difference  to  Herbert  and 
his  companions,  a  change,  a  something  to  be  felt 
rather  than  described,  had  taken  place  in  the 
establishment ;  or  perhaps  I  should  say,  in  a 
small  division  of  it  — for  Howard,  and  the  few 
who  listened  to  his  advice,  formed,  after  all,  a  very 
decided  minority.  Yet  it  was  remarkable  that 
these  few  were  the  most  respectable  and  best- 
conducted  individuals  in  the  house  ;  and,  more- 
over, the  chief  favorites  with  regular  customers, 
who  naturally  prefer  being  waited  on  by  some 
one  in  whom  they  have  confidence. 

It  may  have  been  guessed  that  Alice  IMarkham 
possessed  a  stronger  mind,  and  more  fixed  prin- 
ciples, than  her  brother ;  perhaps  it  was  so,  or 
perhaps  his  youth  may  be  pleaded  as  an  apology 
for  the  one  act  which  had  caused  her  so  much 
pain  — for  in  three  years,  at  their  age,  the  mind 
takes  a  great  spring.  However  this  might  be, 
William  Howard  soon  found  that  in  Alice  Mark- 
ham  he  had  met  a  kindred  spirit  —  one  who  in  a 


150  LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COrNTER  ; 

righteous  cause  Avould  play  the  martyr,  either  hy 
action  or  endurance.  But  why  lengthen  the  tale  ? 
—  could  thev  speak  with  earnest  reasoning,  and 
exchange  high  thoughts  with  glowing  enthusi- 
asm, without  perceiving  that  their  hearts  were 
growing  one  ?  And  in  the  joy  and  glory  of  a 
pure  and  passionate  love  —  health  and  life,  and  a 
feio  hours  in  the  four  and  twenty  for  social  inter- 
course aiid  mental  improvement,  seemed  more 
than  ever  worth  a  struggle.  So  greatly  had 
poor  Alice  suffered  from  the  fatigue  consequent 
on  such  unreasonable  hours  of  attendance  in  the 
shop,  that  William  Howard  persuaded  her  to 
petition  for  eniplo^'ment  in  the  rooms,  where, 
needlework  necessary  in  making  up  things  for 
sale  being  done,  she  might  sit  a  portion  of  the 
day.  It  is  true  that  this  arrangement  deprived 
them  of  opportunities  of  exchanging  many  a 
cherished  word  ;  but  in  all  human  probability  it 
saved  the  life  of  Alice  —  we  shall  see  presently 
for  what. 

It  was  the  custom  of  Herbert  and  Alice  to 
spend  a  portion  of  the  Sunday  with  William 
Howard  and  his  mother.  The  three  usually 
attended  church  together,  and  then  taking  a 
walk  —  for  fresh  air  in  the  parks  if  possible  — 
made  the  humble  dwelling  of  the  widow  their 
halting  place  for  the  day.  Sometimes,  but  not 
often,  Alice  and  her  brother  dined  bv  invitation 


OR,   THE    draper's    ASSISTANT.  151 

at  their  uncle's  ;  and  on  one  remarkable  occasion 
a  postscript  was  added  to  the  note  of  invitation, 
intimating  that  if  they  liked  to  bring  with  them 
the  young  friend  they  had  so  often  mentioned, 
he  would  be  welcome. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Markham  had  invited  a  new 
apprentice  of  the  former  (with  w'hom  he  had 
accepted  rather  an  extra  premium)  to  meet  their 
young  visitors,  all  of  whom  they  received  with 
feelings  of  hospitality,  decidedly  strengthened  by 
the  pleasant  consciousness  of  patronage.  Even 
the  elderly  young  lady,  their  daughter,  had 
thought  it  quite  worth  while  to  deck  herself  in 
smiles,  and  put  on  her  most  becoming  dress. 
What  little  kindnesses  will  kindle  gratitude  in 
affectionate  hearts !  Never  had  Herbert  and 
Alice  felt  so  much  regard  for  their  relatives  as 
from  their  courtesy  they  did  this  day,  tracing 
even  in  the  "  nice "  dinner  of  salmon  and  lamb 
which  had  been  provided,  the  thought  of  their 
gratification.  The  consequence  was  that  their 
hearts  were  opened,  and  they  conversed  with 
much  less  reserve  than  usual ;  and  certain  topics 
at  last  were  started,  on  which  William  Howard 
spoke  with  the  earnest  enthusiasm  which  be- 
longed to  his  nature. 

"  O  dear  ! "  said  Miss  Markham,  who,  having 
lately  adopted  ringlets,  affected  with  them  ex- 
treme juvenility,  —  "  O  dear  !  it  would  be  such  a 


152  LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COUNTER  ; 

pity  to  shut  up  the   shops   at  dark  —  it  would 
make  the  streets  look  quite  dull,  I  declare  ! " 

"  But,  madam,"  replied  Howard,  "  if  you  think 
of  the  tens  of  thousands  who  would  be  made 
happy  by  such  a  custom,  the  lives  that  would  be 
preserved,  the  health  that  would  be  retained  — 
and,  more  than  all,  the  moral  advancement  which 
must  result  from  a  moderate  time  being  afforded 
for  reading  and  mental  improvement  —  " 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Markham,  very  decidedly, 
"  I  don't  see  what  apprentices  and  assistants  want 
with  reading.  It  would  fill  their  heads  with  a 
parcel  of  nonsense  —  that  is  all." 

Howard  colored  deeply,  yet  he  continued  with 
much  self-control  —  "I  do  not  say  that  it  is  de- 
sirable that  such  persons  should  become  what  are 
called  '  literary  ;'  but  I  hope,  Mr.  Markham,  you 
will  agree  with  me  that  some  taste  for  reading, 
some  desire  for  mental  cultivation,  must  form  the 
best  safeguard  against  habits  of  idle  dissipation  ; 
whereas  a  body  jaded  and  worn  by  fifteen  or  six- 
teen hours  of  anxious  toil,  disinclines  the  mind 
for  action,  and  tempts  too  many  to  seek  a  mo- 
mentary stimulant.  I  may  well  say  anxious  toil, 
for  a  situation  ha?  been  known  to  depend  on  an 
assistant  persuading  a  customer  to  buy  an  article 
for  which  she  had  no  inclination." 

'Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Markham,  "  you  do  plague 


J 


OR,    THE    draper's    ASSISTANT.  153 

one  dreadfully.  I  do  declare  there  is  no  getting 
out  of  a  shop  without  buying." 

"  Aunt,"  said  Alice  gently,  "  I  think  the  mis- 
chief is  the  system  of  falsehood  it  teaches  —  oh, 
if  you  knew  the  things  1  have  heard  and  wit- 
nessed." 

"  You  should  not  tell  tales  out  of  school,  niece," 
exclaimed  her  uncle  ;  "  every  trade  has  its  tricks 
—  that  I  know." 

"  More  is  the  pity,  though ! "  said  the  grocer's 
apprentice,  growing  alarmingly  bold  from  the 
treason  to  which  he  had  been  an  attentive  listener. 
There  was  no  verbal  answer,  but  Mr.  Markham 
darted  a  fiery  glance  around,  which,  however, 
only  Alice  read  correctly;  while  her  aunt  again 
spoke,  saying  — 

"  Besides,  sir,  how  could  servants  and  many 
others,  who  are  engaged  all  day,  make  their 
purchases  if  the  shops  were  closed  at  night  ?  " 

"  I  imagine,  madam,  that  under  such  an  ar- 
rangement mistresses  would  allow  servants  the 
liberty  of  going  out  for  this  purpose  in  the  day. 
It  has  even  been  argued  that  it  would  be  an 
advantage  to  such  persons,  inasmuch  as  they 
vi^ould  escape  the  liability  of  being  imposed  on 
by  candle-light,  or  of  purchasing  an  unsuitable 
article  by  accident,  and  would  be  less  likely  to 
be  tempted  on  occasions  to  spend  their  money 
foolishly,  than  from  the  facility  they  now  have 


154  LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COUNTER; 

of  doing  so  at  all  hours.  At  least,  this  is  the 
manner  in  which  we  meet  this  common  objec- 
tion ;  but  it  certainly  rests  greatly  with  those 
who  are  free  agents,  who  can  purchase  at  what 
hours  they  like,  to  exert  the  great  influence  of 
example  by  doing  so  at  early  hours." 

"  It  seems  to  me,  young  gentleman,"  replied 
Mr.  Markham,  "  that  in  all  your  arrangements 
you  leave  the  master's  interests  entirely  out  of 
the  question." 

"  Not  so,  I  assure  you,  sir ;  for  they  would 
reap  many  advantages  in  possessing  a  superior 
set  of  servants,  who  would  have  better  health, 
and  more  alacrity  to  serve  them; — besides,  the 
system  of  early  hours  once  established,  purchas- 
ers would  make  their  arrangements  accordingly. 
They  would  choose  the  articles  they  require, 
early  in  the  day  —  not  go  without  them;  and 
the  result  would  be  active  occupation  during  the 
hours  of  business,  instead  of,  as  is  often  the  case, 
only  the  appearance  of  it ;  for  we  are  ordered  to 
seem  busy  whether  we  are  so  or  not.  Oh,  sir, 
if  you  only  knew  the  misery  and  mischief  which 
have  gone  on  for  the  last  thirty  years,  accumu- 
lating and  progressing,  you  would  see  the  neces- 
sity of  a  change." 

"  No,  I  do  not  see  it,"  returned  their  host, 
"  and  I  disapprove  of  this  discontent  among 
young  peoole,  and  beg  to  hear  no  more  of  it. 


OR,  THE    draper's    ASSISTANT.  155 

Young  people  must  take  their  chance  and  work 
their  way,  as  others  have  done  before  them." 

Yes,  in  as  mortal  danger  of  life  as  the  soldier 
on  the  battle-field  —  {for  this  is  the  comiputed, 
ascertained  fact) — from  breathing  foul  air  — 
from  want  of  sufficient  rest  —  from  continued 
over-exertion  —  from  hurried  and  irregular  meals, 
and  frequently  improper  food  ;  and  in  the  peril 
of  mind  and  morals  which  must  result  from  the 
systematic  teaching  of  much  falsehood,  and  the 
absence  of  all  leisure  for  establishing  religious 
principles  —  for  cultivating  the  intellectual  na- 
ture, and  enjoj^ing  the  healthful  influence  of 
social  intercourse.  But  Mr.  Markham,  who 
spoke  thus,  considered  himself  a  person  of  strict 
principles,  and  above  all,  of  business  habits  —  so 
that  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  apprize  the  govern- 
ing powers  in  the  establishment  of  Messrs.  Scrape 
and  Haveall,  (they  had  lately  given  him  a  large 
order  for  grocery,)  that  they  had  a  dangerous 
rebel  in  their  house.  The  next  day  William 
Howard  was  discharged ! 

Again  three  months  have  passed  —  changing 
now  golden,  glowing  August  to  dull  November. 

In  a  very  humble  dwelling  were  assembled, 
one  Sunday  evening,  William  Howard,  his 
mother,  and  Alice  Markham.  An  open  Bible 
was  on  the  table,  from  which  the  latter  had  been 


156  LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COrNTER; 

reading  aloud,  until  the  gathering  tears  stayed 
her  voice,  and  she  paused ;  her  listeners  know- 
ing too  well  the  reason  of  her  silence  to  ask  it. 
Alas  !  William  Howard  was  now  a  confirmed 
invalid;  —  anxiety  of  mind  on  losing  his  situa- 
tion, and  probably,  a  cold  taken  in  going  about 
seeking  another,  had  completed  the  work  so  long 
begun  —  the  fiat  was  gone  forth  —  consumption 
had  marked  him  as  its  own.  He  knew  the  truth, 
and  was  resigned  to  the  will  of  God  ;  not  with 
that  dogged,  hardened,  brute  courage,  which  may 
meet  death  unflinchingly,  but  with  that  holy  trust 
in  His  mercy,  that  while  the  heart  feels  the  dear 
ties  of  life,  it  has  yet  strength  to  say  meekly  — 
"  Thy  will  be  done  !  " 

"  So  you  think,  dear  Alice,"  said  Mrs.  How- 
ard, making  an  effort  to  change  the  current  of 
all  their  thoughts,  "  you  think  that  Herbert  and 
yourself  will  obtain  situations  in  the  establish- 
ment we  were  speaking  of,  where  they  close  at 
seven  o'clock  ?  —  blessings  on  them,  for  having 
the  courage  and  humanity  to  set  such  an  ex- 
ample." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  Alice,  trying  to 
speak  cheerfully  ;  "  for  they  only  wait  to  see 
Mr.  Haveall  —  and  whatever  evil  may  have  been 
going  on  in  the  house,  he  cannot  accuse  us  of 
participating  in  it.  Ah,  William,  what  a  happi- 
ness it  must  be  to  you,  to  know  that  your  influ- 


OB,   THE    draper's    ASSISTANT.  157 

ence  saved  Herbert  from  becoming  as  false  and 
unworthy  as  so  many  of  his  companions  :  and  1 
—  oh  !  how  much  do  I  owe  you  ! " 

William  Howard  was  scarcely  allowed  to  speak, 
for  the  slightest  exertion  brought  on  the  cough, 
but  he  wrote  on  a  slate  which  was  kept  near 
him  — 

"Less,  dearest,  than  I  owe  you  —  truth  and 
virtue  never  seemed  so  lovely,  as  when  reflected 
from  your  conduct." 

There  was  a  long  pause  after  the  writing  was 
erased  —  and  presently  the  bells  from  neighbor- 
ing churches  were  heard  sounding  for  evening 
service,     William  Howard  wrote  upon  a  slate  — 

"  Mother,  will  you  go  to  church  to-night,  and 
leave  me,  as  you  have  sometimes  done,  with 
Alice?" 

Mrs.  Howard  rose,  and  kissing  his  pale  fore- 
head, said  solemnly, — 

"  I  will  pray  for  all  of  us  —  I  am  inconsider- 
ate to  leave  you  so  seldom  together." 

"No,  no,"  murmured  her  son,  "only  for 
to-night." 

The  lovers  were  together.  Lovers !  what  an 
earthly  word  for  two  such  beings  as  William  and 
Alice.     The  one  — 

"  Whose  shadow  fell  upon  the  grave 
He  stood  so  near,"  — 

the  other,  in  the  years  of  opening  life,  with,  in 
14 


158  LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COUNTER; 

human  probability,  a  long  and  solitary  course 
before  her.  The  heart  of  Alice  \Yas  too  pure  for 
her  to  play  the  prude  for  an  instant.  She  knelt 
on  a  stool  beside  the  large  easy  chair  in  which 
he  was  supported,  and,  passing  her  arm  round 
his  neck,  rested  her  own  head  upon  his  pillow, 
so  that  she  could  overlook  the  little  slate  on 
which  he  wrote,  and  murmur  her  answers  into 
his  ear.  Nay,  I  think  she  pressed  a  kiss  or  two 
upon  the  skeleton  fingers,  before  they  traced  these 
words :  — 

"  Tell  me  the  truth,  dear  Alice,  — where  does 
the  money  come  from,  by  means  of  which  I  am 
surrounded  with  so  many  comforts  ?  It  cannot 
be  my  mother's  needlework  that  earns  it." 

"  And  you  are  too  proud  to  take  a  little  of  our 
savings?" 

"  No,  darling,  I  am  not.  Pride  does  not  be- 
come the  dying;  but  more  is  spent  than  even 
this  accounts  for." 

"Then  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Alice,  after  a 
pause  ;  "  I  think  the  truth  will  give  you  pleas- 
ure. The  fellow-assistants  who  profited  by  your 
advice,  and  who  feel  that  you  are  among  the 
first  few  to  whom  they  are  indebted  for  the  bet- 
ter order  of  things  which  is  coming,  have  insisted 
on  clubbing  together  to  afford  you  every  comfort 
in  your  illness." 

The  slate  dropped  from  his  hand,  and  he  lorote 


OR,  THE    draper's    ASSISTANT.  159 

no  more.  Did  they  both  forget  the  physician's 
injunction  that  he  should  not  speak? 

"  May  God  bless  them  for  it ! "  burst  feebly 
from  his  lips,  yet  more  hurriedly  than  the  phrase 
could  have  been  written  ;  "  and  yet,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  they  can  ill  afford  it,  especially  now 
that  they  want  every  guinea  to  further  the  plans 
of  the  Association  for  their  relief.  Oh !  Alice, 
is  it  really  true  that  so  many  of  the  employers 
have  joined?" 

"Many,"  returned  Alice,  almost  joyfully; 
"  many  of  the  most  respectable  houses  already 
close  at  seven ;  and,  though  they  are  prepared 
to  suffer  a  little  at  first,  from  the  opposition  of 
those  who  keep  open,  they  seem  at  last  to  be 
carrying  out  your  favorite  motto,  '  to  follow  the 
right  whithersoever  it  may  lead.'  Nay,  they  do 
say  that  the  hours  of  toil  will  ultimately  be  re- 
duced to  ten,  —  enough  for  poor  humanity,  as  ive 
know  who  have  ivorked." 

"And  for  me  to  rob  them  at  such  a  time!" 
murmured  Howard,  sinking  his  head  upon  the 
shoulder  of  Alice.  She  kissed  his  cheek  —  his 
lips  —  his  forehead  —  and  felt  the  hot  tears 
streaming  from  his  eyes. 

"  There  is  a  way,"  said  Alice,  softly,  her  cheek 
tingling,  she  knew  not  why,  —  "  there  is  a  means 
for  present  need,  if  it  could  be  adopted.  You 
know  my  uncle  will  not  give  me  a  farthing  of 


160 


LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COUNTER  J 


my  hundred  pounds,  nor  can  I  touch  it  for  some 
months  to  come;  —  yet  —  yet  —  it  is  so  left  — 
tliat  —  that  —  if  I  had  married,  it  would  have 
become  my  husband's." 

"  Well,  dearest  ?  " 

Alice  again  paused,  but  her  cheek  leaned 
against  his  —  her  lips  touched  his  ear  —  and  she 
murmured,  "  Could  it  not  so  be  yours  ?" 

For  a  while  there  was  no  audible  answer. 
William  Howard  raised  his  head  from  Alice 
Markham's  shoulder,  and  gazed  for  a  moment  on 
the  dark  and  earnest  eyes  which  met  his  own 
with  no  coquettish  shrinking,  but  with  a  look  that 
revealed  the  depths  of  her  soul. 

"  No,  never  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  louder  voice 
than  had  been  heard  for  many  weeks  ;  and  while 
he  twined  his  arms  around  her  with  something 
of  recovered  strength,  words  of  endearment  burst 
from  his  lips,  and  broken  phrases  that  might  be 
interpreted,  "  Youth's  bright  imaginings,  and 
poets'  dreams,  are  dull  delusions  compared  with 
such  a  heart  as  this  !" 

x\nd  then  came  the  paroxysm  of  the  cough, 
after  so  much  excitement,  and  he  sank  back  on 
his  pillow  as  helpless  as  an  infant.  A  little 
while,  and  they  spoke  of  death,  not  marriage, 
quite  calmly;  and  yet  his  frame  shook  when 
Alice  murmured,    "I  —  I  —  will  be   as  a  child 


OR,  THE    DRArER's    ASSISTANT.  161 

to  your  mother  —  and  Herbert,  too.     Oh,  Wil- 
liam !  he  will  not  disgrace  your  teaching." 

Again  the  horrid  knell  of  that  painful,  tearing 
cough  ;  and  once  more  his  head  drops  fondly  on 
her  shoulder.  But  there  is  a  gush  of  something 
that  comes  even  hotter  and  faster  than  scalding 
tears  ;  in  the  cough  he  has  broken  a  blood-vessel, 
and  the  life  stream  flows  from  his  pale  lips  on 
the  bosom  of  his  faithful,  high-hearted  Alice ! 
A  few  hours  of  mortal  life  were  all  that  remained 
to  William  Howard. 

Reader,  this  is  a  common  story ;  one  that  m 
all  its  human  emotions  has  been  felt  and  acted 
thousands  of  times.  There  is  somethingf  so 
blinding  in  custom,  that  the  best  and  wisest  of 
us  are  slow  to  see  evils  that  do  not  come  directly 
home  to  us.  How  many  a  gentle  and  sensitive 
woman,  that  has  wept  over  the  vivid  pages  of 
romance,  or  lent  her  keenest  sympathies  to  the 
ideal  sorrows  of  the  drama,  has,  month  after 
month,  and  year  after  year,  visited  the  gay  and 
gorgeous  shops  of  the  "  Metropolitan  Drapers," 
without  so  much  as  dreaming  of  the  deep  and 
real  tragedies  that  were  enacting  "  behind  the 
counter."  The  blighted  youth  —  the  ruined 
health  —  the  early  graves  —  the  withered  minds 
—  the  corrupted  morals  —  and,  oh!  the  noble 
spirits,  the  true  heroes  of  private  life,  who,  stand- 
14# 


162  LIFE    BEHIND    THE    COUNTER  ] 

ing  forward  to  cheer  and  teach,  by  precept  and 
example,  have  won  the  guerdon  of  eternal  grati- 
tude from  their  class.  To  my  mind,  it  seems 
there  must  have  been  many  William  Howards 
ere  the  "Metropolitan  Drapers'  Association" 
could  have  been  formed ;  an  association  now 
encouraged  and  assisted  by  clergy,  members  of 
parliament,  influential  literary  and  philanthropic 
gentlemen,  and  the  most  respectable  emjJoyers 
in  London. 

And  alas  !  there  must  have  been  many  a  self- 
ish, narrow-minded  man,  like  Mr.  Markham, 
with  heart  contracted  by  the  very  system  he 
attempted  to  uphold,  ere  the  wrongs  of  the  op- 
pressed could  have  grown  so  deep  as  to  require 
such  a  remedy. 

Gentle,  kind-hearted  lady,  who  would  not  hurt 
a  noxious  insect  in  your  path  —  who,  if  your  pet 
bird  pined  in  its  gilded  cage,  would  open  the  door 
to  give  it  the  option  of  liberty  —  think  how  much 
good  there  is  in  your  power  to  do  !  Remember 
that  units  make  up  the  millions.  Raise  your 
voice  bravely  to  assert  the  right;  and  in  your 
household  see  that  it  is  done.  Forbid  the  late 
shopping  —  forbid  even  all  tradir.g  with  the 
houses  that  do  keep  open.  Think,  too,  it  is  the 
merry  month  of  May  —  bright  summer,  golden 
autumn,  are  before  us;  then  turn  in  thought,  as 
you  breathe  the  perfume  of  flowers,  or  inhale  the 


OR,   THE    draper's    ASSISTANT.  163 

fresh  sea-breeze,  to  those  crowded  shops,  and 
their  sickly,  heart-crushed  denizens  !  Yet  they 
might  have  the  morning  and  evening  walk  in  the 
bright  summer,  and  in  the  winter  the  cheerful 
fireside,  the  friendly  converse,  and  the  pleasant 
book.  Health  might  bloom  on  their  cheeks,  and 
joy  sparkle  in  their  eyes  ! 


164 


A  FAREWELL  TO   THE  LYRE. 

BY     MISS     E.     L.     MONTAGU. 

Farewell  !  —  the  gift  of  Song  is  fading  fast, 
Like  some  fair  flower,  upfolding  to  its  rest ! 
I  feel  a  glory  from  my  soul  hath  past. 

And  quenched  the  sacred  fires  within  my 
breast. 
My  thoughts  are  dim  —  my  thrilling  lyre  un- 
strung— 
And,  like  sweet  dews  from  off  the  light  leaves 
flung. 
Each  fountain-drop  returneth  to  the  source  from 
whence  it  sprung ! 

Farewell !  —  there  was  a  time  my  soul  had 
wept 
To  see  the  radiant  Sun  of  Song  go  down  ! 
When  'neath  its  light  the  pale-browed  Sorrow 
slept. 
And   Anguish  woke  not  till  its  rays  were 
gone. 
But  severed  now  is  Music's  mystic  chain  ; 
The  eye  which  marks  that  lamp  of  glory  wane 
Shall  smile  upon  its  setting,  though  it  riseth  not 
ajrain ! 


A    FAREWELL    TO    THE    LYKE.  165 

Farewell !  thou  Lyre  so  deeply  loved  of  old ! 
Thy  voice  is  tuneless,  and  thy  spirit  fled. 
Farewell,  each  strain  that  in  my  breast  lies 
cold 
Above  your  rest  be  Joy's  soft  silence  shed. 
Yet,  though  ye  die,  your  mennory  still  is  ours, 
When  faint  ye  breathe  along  the  winged  hours, 
As  odors  soft  arise  from  graves  of  buried  flowers ! 


166 


BLIGHTED   HOMES. 

A  TALE. 

BY     MARY     LEMAN     GILLIES. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  do  not  grumble  !"  were 
words  uttered  in  a  tone  which  expressed  a  sorely- 
oppressed  heart.  The  speaker  was  a  young 
man,  dressed  in  a  fustian  suit  of  working  clothes, 
which  though  coarse  were  clean,  and  could  not 
disguise  a  fine  form.  His  countenance  was  mild, 
grave,  and  open  ;  his  voice  deep  and  touching, 
possessing  those  inflexions  which  belong  to  strong 
feeling  and  a  certain  degree  of  cultivation.  The 
woman  beside  him  was  a  little  compact  creature, 
with  a  pretty  face,  and  piercing  black  eyes  ;  par- 
ticularly neat  in  her  attire,  and  quick  in  her 
movements,  by  which  she  was  every  now  and 
then  in  advance  of  her  companion,  whose  steady, 
equal  pace  knew  no  deviation. 

These  people  were  husband  and  wife,  and 
were  returning  home  together  in  discourse  more 
earnest  than  agreeable  —  one  of  those  events 
which,  in  the  fluctuations  of  trade,  from  time  to 
time  occur  —  a  reduction  of  wages  —  had  tried 
the  temper  of  the  one,  and  touched  the  feelings 


BLIGHTED    HOMES.  167 

of  the  other.     George  and  ]\Iartha  Robinson  had 
been  six  years  married.     Their  union  had  been 
a  rare  combination  of  love  and  prudence ;  her 
early  thriftiness  had  enabled  her  to  bring  many 
substantial  comforts  to  their  home,  and  George, 
if  less  provident,  had  obtained  a  character  for 
integrity  and  skill  which  secured  him  a  prefer- 
ence among  employers.      They  had  one  child, 
nearly  three  years  old,  and  to  superficial  obser- 
vation presented  a  domestic  compact  of  peculiar 
comfort  and  enjoyment.     But  we  must  lift  the 
veil.     The  sources  of  happiness  lie  not  with  ex- 
ternals :  it  needs  no  moralist  to  tell  us  how  inade- 
quate is  wealth  to  its  production  —  how  little  the 
glitter  of  the  diamond   enlivens  the  breast  on 
which  it  glows.     In  the  home  of  George  Robin- 
son, those   moral  gems,  order  and  cleanliness, 
had  a  setting ;  they  were  so  predominant  as  to 
be  apparent  at  a  glance,  and  a  stricter  observa- 
tion would  have  disclosed  an  admirable  system 
of  economy  and  habits  of  industry.     These  were 
Martha's  great  requisites,  and  it  is  scarcely  pos- 
sible to  overrate  them  ;  but  she  deteriorated  their 
value,  often  nullified  their  power,  by  moral  de- 
ficiencies,—  deficiencies  of  those  qualities  which, 
though  taking  rank  among  the  minor  essentials 
of  character,  are  daily  items  in  the  account  of 
life  that  sway  the  balance  to  enjoyment  or  mis- 
ery.    She  wanted  gentleness  of  spirit,  kindliness 


168  BLIGHTED    HOMES. 

of  temper,  and  amenity  of  manner.  In  the  days 
of  her  petted  childhood,  in  the  brief  courtship 
which  had  preceded  her  early  marriage,  her 
pertness  had  been  regarded  as  wit,  her  youth 
and  prettiness  giving  a  passport  to  much  that 
was  reprehensible  and  repulsive.  It  was  thought 
that  her  exuberance  of  spirit  and  aci  lity  of 
humor  would  become  subdued  and  softened  by 
the  sobering  cares  and  soothing  duties  of  domes- 
tic life.  Such  did  not  prove  to  be  the  case.  The 
disposition  to  perceive  deformity  rather  than 
beauty ;  to  censure  sooner  than  praise ;  to  find 
out  the  faulty  instead  of  the  fair  side  of  every- 
thing, and  to  extract  bitters  rather  than  sweets, 
which  had  once  been  exercised  in  a  wide  circle 
of  family,  friends,  and  neighbors,  gained  strength 
in  the  concentration  it  experienced  after  her  mar- 
riage. Every  little  mole-hill  annoyance  grew, 
from  her  manner  of  viewing  it,  into  a  mountain 
grievance,  nor  when  passed  away  was  it  forgot- 
ten. No  moment  was  so  calm  in  which  her 
caprice  might  not  raise  a  storm  or  revive  one  ; 
no  entreaties  to  let  "  bygones  be  bygones  "  would 
avail,  and  often  had  George  Robinson  occasion 
to  exclaim  with  Solomon  —  "Better  is  a  dry 
morsel  and  quietness  therewith,  than  a  house 
full  of  sacrifices  and  strife." 

On  learning  the  abridgment  which  their  means 
had  experienced,  she  had  instantly  launched  into 


BLIGHTED    HOLIES.  169 

a  flow  of  words  which  tortured  her  husband's 
mind,  and  urged  him  to  utter  the  adjuration  just 
quoted,  but  she  continued  her  painful  and  fruit- 
less expatiation  till  they  reached  home.  With  a 
slow  and  sad  step,  George  entered  :  had  the  in- 
ner man  possessed  resignation  to  the  present  and 
hope  for  the  future,  which  a  complacent  com- 
panion might  have  easily  infused,  how  might  he 
have  shut  the  door  of  his  dwelling  upon  the  angry 
world,  and  realized  a  little  Goshen  of  his  own, 
for  the  scene  was  all  neatness,  brightness,  and 
sweetness;  but  without  the  moral  charms  of 
cheerful,  tender  lovingness,  it  was  but  the  naked 
trellis  wanting  the  flowers  it  was  fitted  to  sus- 
tain. 

The  fire  had  been  carefully  made  up;  a  gen- 
tle stir,  and  it  threw  about  the  room  a  blaze 
which  glanced  upon  the  well  kept  furniture,  the 
quiet  carpet,  and  the  curtained  windows,  while 
the  open  door  of  the  adjoining  apartment  gave  a 
glimpse  of  the  bed  with  its  nice  hangings,  the 
child's  cot  with  its  white  coverlet;  turn  his  eye 
where  he  might,  the  order  essential  to  comfort 
was  apparent,  but  did  not  dissipate  the  desolate 
feelings  planted  in  his  heart.  He  sat  down  by 
the  fire,  leaned  his  elbow  on  his  knee,  and  his 
head  on  his  hand.  His  attitude  expressed 
thoughtful  melancholy  ;  Martha  looked  at  him, 
felt  a  conviction  that  he  was  unhappy,  and  was 
15 


170  BLIGHTED    HOBIES. 

not  insensible  to  a  sympathetic  regret ;  had  she 
gone  to  his  side,  put  her  arm  about  him,  and 
said  —  "Dear  George,  look  up,  this  will  pass 
away  and  soon,"  he  was  the  very  man  to  have 
responded  to  such  cheer,  to  have  seen  sunshine 
behind  the  cloudj  but  it  was  her  unhappy  habit 
to  rouse  him  with  a  sting.  Gentleness  of  man- 
ner she  was  apt  to  characterize  as  affectation ; 
expressions  of  tenderness  and  attachment  as 
hypocrisy,  and  thus  habituated  herself  to  the 
reverse. 

"I  don't  see,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  harsh, 
cutting  tone,  "  the  use  of  your  sitting  moping 
there  —  putting  your  dirty  feet  on  the  fender  — 
you  'd  take  better  care  had  you  the  keeping  of  it 
bright." 

With  that  she  untied  her  bonnet  strings  with 
a  twitch  and  turned  into  the  next  room.  The 
sharp  sound  of  shaking  the  dust  from  her  shawl 
ere  it  was  folded,  the  abrupt  push  given  to  the 
box  in  which  her  bonnet  was  replaced,  were  all 
unnecessary  discords,  spoiling  the  moral  har- 
mony of  her  best  habits.  She  returned  to  the 
pretty  parlor  tying  on  a  clean  white  apron  ;  her 
cheek  was  rosy,  her  hair  smoothly  braided,  her 
cap,  an  effort  of  unexpensive  ingenuity,  all  fresh- 
ness, and  thus,  the  very  type  of  niceness,  she 
threw  a  snowy  cloth  upon  the  table,  on  which 
she  made  arrangements  for  supper  worthy  of  a 


BLIGHTED   HOMES. 


171 


home  of  higher  pretensions  ;  but  her  movements 
were  ungentle,  her  aspect  ungracious,  and  thus 
all  these  pleasant  proprieties  were  robbed  of  the 
atmosphere  that  could  alone  give  them  bright- 
ness and  warmth. 

George,  under  the  effect  of  the  homeward 
scolding,  had  not  spoken  since  he  came  in ;  he 
merely  looked  up,  on  her  briefly  telling  him  if  he 
wanted  beer  to  go  and  fetch  it,  and  rising  he  took 
his  hat  and  went  out.  He  had  not  proceeded 
many  steps  before  he  overtook  and  fell  into  talk 
with  a  fellow-workman.  The  latter  was  in  a 
state  of  great  excitement;  he  had  just  left  his 
home  under  the  influence  of  strong  disgust  and 
excessive  annoyance  from  his  wife,  a  slatternly 
woman,  and  he  sought  relief  by  indulging  in 
violent  invective  against  her,  declaring,  with  an 
impetuous  oath,  his  determination  to  spend  half 
the  night  at  the  public  house. 

"  I  '11  just  show  her,"  he  continued,  "  that  if 
she  won't  make  comfort  for  me  at  home,  I  '11 
make  it  for  myself  abroad." 

"  No,  no,"  expostulated  Robinson,  "  you  will 
only  make  bad  worse  — you'll  take  too  much 
and  spend  too  much,  Walker  !""  He  added,  put- 
ting his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  his  companion 

"  Bessie  is  a  soft,  gentle  creature  —  a  woman 

full  of  kindness  ;  and,  oh,  God  !  what  a  blessing 


172  BLIGHTED    HOMES. 

must  that  be !     Take  my  advice,  Walker,  and  go 
home." 

"  Home  I "  he  repeated.  "  What  have  I  to  go 
home  to  ?  There  's  no  fire  ;  the  children  are  all 
up  and  squalling ;  everything  at  sixes  and  sevens 
—  in  fact,  the  whole  place  in  an  uproar.  No,  if 
she  likes  to  live  in  a  den  I  don't,  and  what 's  more 
I  won't.  She  '11  drive  me  to  something  desper- 
ate—  an  untidy,  slipshod  hussy  1" 

From  this  brief  interview  Robinson  returned 
home  with  new  feelings ;  the  excitenient  and 
interest  that  Walker  had  created  had  roused  him 
from  the  condition  of  morbid  feeling  to  which  he 
had  yielded.  He  placed  the  brighi  pot,  with  its 
head  of  foam,  upon  the  table,  and  with  a  fresh 
eye,  as  if  he  then  scanned  them  for  the  first  time, 
looked  upon  the  appliances  to  comfort  that  sur- 
rounded him.  The  room  v/as  at  the  moment 
vacant,  his  survey  was  therefore  uninterrupted. 
His  face  brightened  as  he  gazed  upon  the  little 
panorama.  During  his  absence,  his  slippers  had 
been  put  before  the  fire;  his  house  jacket  hung  on 
the  back  of  his  chair;  on  another,  his  clean  linen 
for  the  next  day  airing  —  all  spoke  the  kindness  of 
a  woman  who  yet  could  rarely  utter  a  kind  word. 
His  heart,  at  the  moment  full  of  her  merits,  from 
the  contrast  that  had  been  forced  upon  his  con- 
sideration, would,  had  he  obeyed  the  impulse  of 
his  natural  character,  have  led  him  to  seek  her 


BLIGHTED    HOMES. 


173 


and  given  warm  expression  to  his  feelings;  but 
they  had  been  so  often  checked  by  her  coldness 
or  reversed  by  her  contradiction,  that  a  second 
nature  had  supervened,  producing  habits  of  re- 
serve and  self-restraint.  Yet  under  the  existing 
stimulus  he  could  not  quite  restrain  himself,  but 
going  towards  the  next  room,  he  leaned  against 
the  side  of  the  doorway,  and  said  cheerfully  — 
"  Come,  Patty,  I  am  ready  for  supper." 

"  Are  you  ?  "  she  replied.  "  Then  you  '11  have 
it  when  it 's  ready  for  you  —  so  just  wait  till  you 
get  it." 

Thus  repelled,  for  her  voice  was  more  harsh 
than  her  words,  he  stepped  back,  but,  try  as  he 
would,  he  again  felt  his  spirits  ebb.  He  stirred 
the  fire,  drew  the  table  closer  to  it,  and  strove  to 
feel  indifference.  In  the  midst  of  this  she  ap- 
peared, seated  herself  at  the  table,  helped  her 
husband,  but  forebore  to  partake  of  anything 
herself.  She  had  a  sullen  satisfaction  in  nurs- 
ing her  wayward  humor,  and  knew  from  experi- 
ence that  it  was  apt  to  fly  off  under  the  social 
influence  of  a  repast. 

Robinson  looked  at  her  clouded  face  and  felt 
exasperated.  He  put  down  his  knife  and  fork, 
pushed  back  his  chair,  and  exclaimed  —  "  Now 
what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? " 

It  must  be  recollected  that  Robinson  was  not 
only  angry  but  hungry,  and  the  state  of  physical 
15# 


174  BLIGHTED    H03IES. 

sensation  has  no  small  influence  upon  the  moral 
feelings  ;  perhaps  his  wife  was  not  without  shar- 
ing this  uneasy  state  of  stomach  ;  be  that  as  it 
may,  his  tones  struck  jarringly  on  the  quivering 
chords  of  her  excitable  temper  ;  she  replied  with 
her  usual  petulance  and  flippancy.  Words  are 
a  generative  family  —  one  begot  another  —  and 
to  bring  the  quarrel  to  a  close,  Robinson  seized 
his  hat,  resolved  to  leave  the  house.  Deter- 
mined to  prevent  his  egress,  Martha  threw  her- 
self between  him  and  the  door ;  a  struggle  en- 
sued ;  he  pushed  her  from  him  ;  she  stumbled 
back,  and  falling  over  a  footstool  came  violently 
to  the  ground,  striking  her  head  as  she  fell 
against  the  fender. 

In  an  instant,  terror  and  tenderness  supplanted 
rage  in  his  breast.  He  raised  her  ;  the  color  had 
forsaken  her  face,  and  some  drops  of  blood  were 
trickling  from  her  forehead.  After  liurried  efforts 
to  revive  her,  he  laid  her  again  gently  on  the 
floor,  and  flew  to  alarm  his  neighbors.  These, 
with  medical  aid  and  the  police,  were  soon  in  the 
place,  and  the  night  closed  with  the  wounded 
woman  in  a  fevered  bed,  and  her  husband  in  the 
cell  of  a  station  house. 

It  was  an  agonizing  night  to  both.  Robinson, 
though  aggrieved,  felt  now  as  if  he  had  been  the 
aggressor,  and  with  the  generosity  that  often  be- 
loni^s  to  strength,  he  blanjied  himself  for  the  rash 


BLIGHTED    HOMES.  175 

violence  he  had  exerted  towards  so  delicate  a 
creature,  and  made  a  thousand  resolves  to  let 
her  have  all  her  own  way  for  the  future.  Mar- 
tha, on  the  contrary,  (really  less  hurt  than  was 
apprehended,)  bewailed  her  injuries,  vituperated 
her  husband  and  his  sex,  till  she  learned  that  he 
had  been  taken  charge  of  by  the  police.  Any 
real  danger  to  him  ever  turned  the  whole  cur- 
rent of  her  feelings  in  his  favor,  and  absolute 
force  was  necessary  to  prevent  her  seeking  in 
person  to  obtain,  by  self-accusation,  his  immedi- 
ate release. 

This  event  terminated  like  many  of  a  more 
aggravated  character  that  disgrace  the  history  of 
some  classes  of  our  people ;  George  was  liber- 
ated on  bail,  and  afterwards,  on  the  candid  ac- 
k-nowledgments  of  his  wife,  acquitted.  But, 
indignant  at  the  public  degradation  to  which,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  had  been  exposed, 
the  circumstance  made  a  deep  impression  on 
him.  The  slightness  of  the  injury  to  Martha 
removed  all  his  deeper  feelings  of  regret,  and 
her  unchanged  habits  effectually  stemmed  the 
flow  of  his  returning  tenderness.  Affliction  has 
its  freemasonry:  Robinson  and  Walker  became 
confederates  under  the  sympathetic  influence  of 
.a  common  grievance  —  unhappiness  at  home. 
The  neglected  wives  grew  into  gossips  upon 
those  fertile  topics  —  the  fauks  of  each  other  and 


176  BLIGHTED    HOMES. 

of  their  respective  husbands;  for  each  acutely 
felt  her  peculiar  griefs  and  distinctly  discerned 
her  neighbor's  error.  Bessie  Walker,  while  be- 
wailing her  own  domestic  misery,  w^ould  exclaim 
—  "  No  one  can  wonder  at  the  change  in  George 
Robinson  —  such  a  vixen  as  Martha  would  drive 
any  man  mad !"  While  Mrs.  Robinson,  amid  a 
resentful  sense  of  injury  from  neglect,  was  florid 
in  reflection  on  the  bad  management  and  disgust- 
ing carelessness  of  poor  Bessie.  It  was  the  old 
story  of  the  mote  and  the  beam,  the  miserable 
effect  of  want  of  self-examination  and  reflection. 

But  every  moment  bears  the  seed  of  change  — 
the  present  is  passing  away,  the  future  unfold- 
ing. Where  there  is  not  moral  progress,  there 
is  moral  deterioration ;  there  is  no  safety  but  in 
an  unceasing  endeavor  at  improvement.  The 
woman  who  does  not  help  to  build  a  husband's 
fortune  assists  to  pull  it  down  ;  the  union  that 
is  not  marked  by  moral  progress  proceeds  and 
closes  in  moral  misery.  The  arrears  of  the  do- 
mestic duties  make  a  dread  account,  and  Heaven 
help  the  moral  bankrupt  before  whom  they  are 
laid! 

On  a  summer  evening,  somewhat  more  than 
twelve  months  after  the  little  incident  of  the  sta- 
tion house,  Martha  was  seated  at  her  window 
busy  at  her  needle,  when  the  sound  of  the  drum 
and  fife,  and  the  tramp  of  feet,  induced  her  to 


BLIGHTED    HOBIES.  177 

drop  her  work  into  her  lap  and  look  out.  She 
saw  the  recruiting  Serjeant,  who  had  been  for 
some  time  located  in  the  neighborhood,  passing 
with  a  band  of  recruits.  Among  the  usual  crowd 
on  such  occasions,  one  group  arrested  her  atten- 
tion;  it  was  a  staggering,  haggard-looking  man, 
with  a  shrieking  woman  clinging  to  him  —  three 
or  four  little  children  were  hanging  about  her, 
and  adding  by  their  cries  to  the  clamor.  A 
glance  sufficed  to  show  Martha  that  this  was  the 
unhappy  family  of  the  Walkers,  and  a  shiver  of 
instinctive  sympathy  attested  her  strong  feeling 
at  the  spectacle  they  presented.  The  passionate 
tenderness  and  touching  tones  that  gushed  from 
the  lips  of  the  distracted  Bessie  every  now  and 
then  fell  distinctly  on  her  ear,  till  the  eflorts  of 
the  gathering  neighbors  prevailed,  and  the  ex- 
hausted wife  and  her  weeping  little  ones  were 
removed.  The  band  again  fell  into  order,  the 
music  grew  louder  and  merrier,  and  Martha 
looked  at  the  men  to  see  if  among  the  Serjeant's 
prey  she  might  discover  any  other  of  her  neigh- 
bors, when,  bringing  up  the  rear,  she  beheld 
Robinson.  With  a  slow,  sad  step,  a  pale  cheek, 
but  a  melancholy  resolution  in  his  bearing, 
George  came  on  ;  as  he  passed  his  own  dwell- 
ing, he  raised  his  dejected  eyes  and  met  those  of 
his  wife  —  a  momentary  and  expressive  gesture 
with  his  hand  seemed  to  say  —  "It  is  all  over; 


178  BLIGHTED    H03IES. 

better  cut  the  knot  I  cannot  disentangle  ;  I  have 
done  it,  and  farewell !  " 

When  she  recovered  from  the  stunning  effects 
of  the  sight,  she  rushed  to  the  bed  of  her  sleep- 
ing child,  and  wrapping  it  up,  went  forth  with  it 
in  her  arms,  conscious  that  it  could  plead  for  her 
in  a  manner  that  she  could  not  plead  for  herself. 
Thoughts  like  lightning  passed  through  her  brain 
as  she  hurried  along  to  the  place  where  the  mili- 
tary party  had  halted.  The  hour  of  parting,  like 
the  power  of  death,  yields  a  background,  upon 
which  the  object  about  to  be  lost  stands  forth  in 
peculiar  brightness.  All  the  hitherto  unesti- 
mated  qualities  of  George  Robinson  blazed  upon 
the  perception  of  his  wife,  and  her  own  faults 
and  deficiencies  took  a  dark  array  beside  them. 
Charities  uncultivated  die  out,  or  fall  into  abey- 
ance, often  lying  so  dormant  that  the  stir  of 
strong  events  is  necessary  to  revive  them.  Why, 
why  will  any  leave  the  heart  thus  fallow,  for  the 
harrow  of  death  or  sorrow  to  quicken  it  into  only 
unavailing  fruitfulness  ! 

George  and  Martha  met  and  parted,  with  deep 
and  tender  feeling,  with  renewed  consciousness 
of  the  early  love  that  had  first  brought  them 
together,  and  of  the  individual  merits  by  which 
each  were  distinguished.  At  that  moment,  Mar- 
tha (for  with  her  our  moral  mostly  rests)  saw  the 
errors  that  had  marked  her  course,  the  faults  that 


BLIGHTED    H03IES.  179 

had  deformed  her  character  and  spoiled  her  hap- 
piness. Had  the  considerations  condensed  into 
tliat  brief  space  been  spread  through  her  previ- 
ous life,  allotting  to  each  day  some  little  portion 
of  appreciation  of  the  present  and  reflection  for 
the  future,  how  different  had  been  its  course  and 
its  now  probable  close  ! 

George  had  folded  her  and  his  child  to  his 
heart ;  he  had  blessed  them,  and  left  the  larger 
portion  of  the  bounty  money  that  had  helped  to 
bribe  him  to  the  trade  of  blood  —  for  it  was  at  a 
period  when  the  wild  work  of  war  was  rife ;  and 
with  such  solace  as  these  could  yield,  she  re- 
turned home. 

Home !  what  was  it  to  her  now  ?  A  desert, 
from  which  the  stir  of  life,  the  spring  of  action, 
had  departed.  She  sat  down  amid  that  scene  — 
so  changed,  yet  still  the  same  —  and  wept  over 
the  bitter  review  which  it  suggested.  Oh,  now 
to  hear  that  approach  which  she  had  so  often 
met  with  indifference  or  unkindness  I  Her  child 
woke  —  woke  with  her  sobs  and  the  falling  of 
her  tears  upon  its  face.  It  looked  up  with  the 
bland,  open  expression  which  it  derived  from  its 
father,  and,  kneeling  in  her  lap,  clasped  its  little 
arms  about  her  neck.  What  a  lesson  !  Nature, 
that  gentle  teacher,  uttered  no  reproach.  It  said, 
"  Come  back,  thou  erring  one  ;  consider  thy  ways 
and  be  wiser." 


ISO  BLIGHTED    HOMES. 

New  scenes  and  trials  opened  upon  the  un- 
happy men  who  had  rashly  abandoned  their 
homes  and  social  duties.  They  joined  their 
regiment,  and  soon  trod  the  shores  where  the 
genius  of  war  was  shaping  the  different  destinies 
of  Wellington  and  Napoleon  :  for  the  one,  laurels 
and  longevity  —  for  the  other,  exile  and  the 
double  canker  that  devoured  mind  and  body. 
Sorrows  at  home  had  made  Robinson  and 
Walker  companions ;  hardships  abroad  made 
them  friends.  Mutual  sympathies,  common  rec 
ollections,  and  struggles,  drew  them  together  . 
when  the  weary  day,  which  had  seen  them 
plunging  into  passes  or  tangled  coverts  —  toil 
ing  through  deep  ravines  or  over  rugged  moun- 
tains, harassed,  worn,  and  wasted,  came  to  a 
close,  they  cowered  over  the  bivouac  fire  to- 
gether, and  were  more  often  in  communion  on 
the  past  than  engaged  upon  the  present;  for, 
with  the  clingings  of  a  failing  man.  Walker 
would  continually  revert  to  home.  Long  before 
he  had  left  it,  he  had  yielded  to  habits  of  intem- 
perance, which  now  told  against  his  constitution, 
and  Robinson  was  called  upon  for  much  exer- 
tion in  his  behalf,  which,  with  his  characteristic 
generosity,  he  kindly  made.  They  were  among 
the  gallant  band  that  covered  the  retreat  of  Sir 
John  ^loore,  and  in  the  march  from  Lugo  to  Be- 
zantos  suffered  severely.    In  twelve  days  they  had 


BLIGHTED    HOMES.  181 

traversed  eighty  miles  of  road  in  two  marches ; 
passed  several  nights  under  arms  in  the  snow  of 
the  mountains ;  and  were  seven  times  engaged 
with  the  enemy.  Walker  had  day  by  day  lost 
strength  :  the  want  of  shoes  and  the  bad  weather 
had  aggravated  the  difficulties  of  the  way,  and 
on  the  evening  of  their  reaching  Bezantos  he 
declared  he  could  do  no  more  —  could  go  no 
further.  The  rain  that  day  had  fallen  for  six 
successive  hours,  and  in  a  splashy  spot,  with  his 
head  resting  on  a  stone,  he  lay  down.  All  the 
troops  passed  on  —  but  one.  Robinson  remained 
beside  his  broken-down  comrade,  heard  his  last 
prayers,  his  last  wishes,  as  in  that  final  hour  his 
thoughts  flew  to  the  home  he  should  behold  no 
more!  The  struggle  was  brief:  he  called  on 
God  and  died!  The  weather  had  calmed  —  the 
sky  cleared  —  the  moon  broke  forth,  and,  covered 
with  her  light,  Robinson  left  the  cold  remains, 
with  a  sad  satisfaction  that  the  poor  fellow  had 
laid  his  burden  down  and  was  at  rest. 

After  the  battle  of  Coruna,  in  which  Robinson 
was  wounded,  he  was  among  those  who  con- 
trived to  escape  to  Portugal,  and  there  joined  the 
remnants  of  regiments  which  were  afterwards 
embodied  and  fought  at  Oporto  and  Talavera. 

Martha's  life,  from  the  day  of  her  husband's 
departure,  had  been  one  continued  praiseworthy 
struggle  against  the  infirmities  of  her  nature  and 
16 


182  BLIGHTED    HOMES. 

the  assaults  of  fortune.  By  means  of  industry, 
frugality,  and  some  aid  from  early  family  con- 
nections, she  managed  to  preserve  her  home 
undeteriorated,  and  to  rear  her  child  worthily. 
Poor  Bessie,  with  less  energy  of  character  and 
elevation  of  purpose,  sunk  into  successive  stages 
of  degradation  ;  the  scarlet  fever  robbed,  or,  per- 
haps it  might  better  be  said,  relieved  her  of  her 
wretched  children,  and  she  was  received  into  the 
workhouse.  But  even  there  the  redeeming  power 
of  good  at  last  asserted  itself :  her  patience  and 
kindliness  of  nature  made  her  a  good  nurse,  and 
the  blessing  of  the  very  old,  the  young,  and  the 
sick,  w^ere  with  her. 

Little  Matty  Robinson  was  eleven  years  old 
when  the  sad  news  came  that  her  father  had 
fallen  at  Talavera.  It  came  upon  her  mother 
like  a  blight.  The  morning  and  the  midnight 
prayer  had  been  breathed  for  his  return  ;  the 
chief  object  of  her  daily  toils  —  her  self-denial  — 
her  self-discipline  —  to  build  up  happiness  for 
Ms  latter  days. 

"  Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  "  can  it  be  I  Is  it  possi- 
ble that  we  are  to  meet  no  more  —  that  he  will 
never  see  what  I  have  made  his  child  —  what  I 
purposed  to  make  his  home  ?  Have  I  sorrowed 
for  him  —  have  I  loved  him  in  vain?" 

Among  the  motives  for  resignation  presented 
to  her,  was  the  probability  that  he  might  have 


BLIGHTED    H03IES. 


183 


returned  a  wreck,   ^Yhich   she  co  ild  not  have 
borne  to  behold. 

"  No,  no  !"  she  said  ;  "  lame,  blind,  a  beggar, 
he  would  be  welcome  to  me  —  dearer  to  me  than 
in  iiis  brig-Jitest  days  I" 

Beautifully  is  it  said,  "  Weeping  may  endure 
for  a  night,  but  joy  cometh  in  the  morning!" 
and  truly  that  "the  darkest  hour  is  just  before 
dawn."  Even  while  Martha's  passionate  words 
were  being  uttered,  a  broken-down  and  dis- 
banded soldier  was  making  towards  the  town  ,. 
and  before  the  morning  had  ripened  to  mid-day, 
George  Robinson  was  once  more  in  his  bridal 
home  —  had  clasped  to  his  heart  the  wife  of  his 
first  aflcction — had  wept  with  proud  joy  over  his 
child. 

The  moral  of  our  sketch  is  sufficiently  evi- 
dent :  we  are  all  unapt  to  place  a  sufficient  value 
on  the  good  in  possession,  or  sufficiently  to  use 
or  economize  the  means  of  happiness.  Did  we 
look  into  ourselves  and  our  position,  each  would 
find  much  lying  dorm.ant  that  might  be  available 
for  enjoying  and  dispensing  good:  to  none  does 
this  remark  apply  more  than  to  wives  and  moth- 
ers. The  woman  who  holds  in  her  own  right, 
mor.tl  worth,  gentleness,  and  kindness,  is  an 
heiress  endowed  by  God  ;  hers  is  the  holy  power 
to  sustain  the  good  man,  restrain  the  aberrating, 
and  reclaim  the  bad.     As  a  mother,  who  may 


184  BLIGHTED    HOMES. 

place  limits  t ,  her  power,  or  to  the  range  which 
the  spirit  of  good  which  she  implants  may  take  ? 
"  The  life  of  every  being  is  the  well-spring  of  a 
?tream,  whose  small  beginnings  are  indeed  plain 
to  all,  but  whose  ulterior  course  or  destination, 
as  it  winds  through  the  expanse  of  infinite  years, 
only  the  Omniscient  can  discern." 


1S5 


THE    POOR    MAN'S    MAY. 

BY      J.      SAUNDERS. 

Sweet  May  I  they  tell  me  thou  art  come  : 

Thou  art  not  come  to  me  ; 
I  cannot  spare  a  single  hour, 

Sweet  May  !  to  welcome  thee. 
God  knows  how  hard  I  've  worked  this  week. 

To  earn  my  children  bread  ; 
And  see,  we  have  an  empty  board ; 

My  children  are  unfed. 

And  art  thou  still  the  san>e  sweet  May, 

That  I  did  love  so  well, 
When  humming  like  a  happy  bee, 

Along  some  primrose  dell, 
I  thought,  oh  !  what  a  lovely  world 

Is  this,  dear  God  has  given  ; 
And  wondered  any  one  should  seek 

For  any  other  heaven  ? 

Then  hawthorn  buds  are  come  again. 

And  apple  blossoms  too  ; 
And  all  the  idle  happy  birds 

May  sing  the  long  day  through. 
16^ 


186  THE    POOR    man's    MAY. 

The  old  Green  Lane  awakes  once  more, 
And  looks,  perhaps,  for  me ; 

Alas  !  Green  Lane,  one's  heart  may  die- 
I  cannot  come  to  thee. 


If  J3U1  WIEILIL  ©IF  ^7  mi'S'WM  » 


W.  T.  GcMari.  Pm,i 


187 


THE  WELL  OF   ST.  KEYNE. 

BY     ANNA    SAVAGE 

"  St.  Keyne,  sailh  the  chronicle,  many  a  time 

Drank  of  this  Crystal  Well, 
And  before  the  angel  summoned  her, 

She  laid  on  the  waters  a  spell :  — 
If  the  husband  at  this  gifted  well 

Shall  drink  before  his  wife, 
A  happy  man  thenceforth  is  he. 

For  he  shall  be  master  for  life." 

"I  WILL  not  throw  the  sceptre  down  now  that  its 

power  I  know, 
For  who  that  once  had  reigned  a  queen  would 

to  a  subject  bow? 
Must  he  to  whom  my  smile  was  law  his  freedom 

hold  again, 
And  woman's  will  and  woman's  wit  henceforth 

be  all  in  vain  ? 
Not  till  within  our  favored  West  one  crystal  well 

is  dry ! 
Save  me  the  dire  disgrace,  St.  Keyne,  of  blessed 

memory ! 
And  if  I  fail  to  gain  the  gift  thou  hast  bequeathed 

the  wave, 
Let  woman's  will  make  woman's  wit  henceforth 

a  willing  slave." 


1S8 


THE    WELL    OF    ST.    KEYNE. 


So  spake  fair  Margaret.    Triumph  gleamed  upon 

her  smiling  face ; 
The  holy  well  is  at  her  feet,  and  curbs  her  hur- 
ried pace  ; 
She  fills  with  care  the  crystal  flask,  and  seeks 

the  charm  to  hide 
Amid  the  drapery's  graceful  fold  that  decks  her 

for  a  bride : 
Stay,  maiden !    bend  above  the  wave  thy  pure 

and  joyous  brow. 
And  tell  me,  saw'st  thou  aught  so  fair  as  that 

which  greets  thee  now? 
Go,  vainly  seek  Cornubia  through,  from  saint  or 

fabled  elf, 
A  mightier  spell  than  that,  which  there  reflects 

thy  lovely  self ! 

Oh,  who  could  doubt  the  gentle  power  thy  feeble 

hand  may  try 
In  thy  new  home,  the  ruling  star  to  guide  man's 

destiny. 
And  there,  by  soft  afl^ection's  chain,  bind  tyrants 

to  thy  sway, 
Until  they  learn  the  lore  they  teach,  "to  honor 

and  obey  I" 
Though  time  may  rob  thy  cheek  of  bloom,  thy 

blue  eye  of  its  light, 
Still  smiles  upon  life's  turbid  stream  shall  make 

them  seei.'v  as  bright ; 


THE    WELL    OF    ST.    KEYNE 

189 

Thy  low  sweet  voice,  thy  kindly  smile  —  these 
shall  the  loved  one  greet, 

And  these  the  weapons  that  shall  bind  the  cap- 

tive  at  thy  feet. 

The 
And 

little  symbol  ring  at  last  has  clasped  her 

fairy  finger, 

now  within  the  rustic  porch  the  bridal  party 

linger. 

And 

many  a  wistful  glance  is  cast 
willow  tree  : 

towards  the 

An 

arch  smile  played  on  Margaret 
bridegroom,  where  is  he  ? 

's  lip,  —  the 

He  kneels  beside  the  enchanted  well 

;  ''Go  drink 

the  stream  in  vain," 

She 

murmurs,  "  despot!  own  my  sway ;  a  sov- 

ereign still  I  reign : 

Oh, 

woman's  wit  more  swiftly  speeds 

than  lover's 

step  can  fly  !  " 
T  hen  pointing  to  the  empty  flask,  she  claims  the 

mastery. 

Nor 

is,  they  say,  that  crystal  well 
dream, 

a  legendary 

For 

such  there  be  of  virtue  rare  bey 
mar's  stream ; 

ond  the  Ta- 

And 

man,  who  boldly  boasts  his  power,  knows 

not  how  soon  't  is  o'er, 

But 

hastes  to  drink  of  freedom's  draught  —  some            || 

Margaret  drank  before  ! 

190 


THE    WELL    OF    ST.    KEYNE. 


And  when  he  thinks,  most  proud  and  free,  he 

has  dominion  shown, 
He   dreams  not  who  has   stolen  the   spell   and 

made  the  charm  her  own  : 
Yea,   kingdoms   fall   and    tottering  thrones   are 

from  their  stations  hurled, 
But  woman's  wit  and  woman's  will  supreme  still 

rule  the  world. ^ 

*  Lfs  ffMriines  peuvenl  tout  parceque  elles  gouvcrnent  ecus 
qui  gduveriieiil  Uml. 


191 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  GIFTED. 

BY      ELIZABETH      YOUATT. 

"  In  memor)''s  land  waves  never  a  leaf, 

There  never  a  sunnmer  breeze  Mows, 
But  some  long  smothered  thought  of  joy  or  grief 

Starts  up  from  its  solemn  repose  ; 
And  forms  are  living  and  visible  there, 
Which  vanished  long  since  from  our  earthly  sphere." 

IMlSS  IIOLFURD. 

Did  we  choose  to  mention  real  names,  many 
might  recollect  as  well  as  ourselves  the  early 
and  somewhat  sudden  death  of  a  poet,  whose 
precocious  talent  gave  rise  to  hopes  which  were 
destined  never  to  be  realized ;  but  we  forbear  to 
do  so,  lest  any  might  be  found  who  would  re- 
member only  to  weep.  He  was  little  known  out 
of  his  own  immediate  circle,  of  which  he  was  the 
idol ;  for  Fame,  ever  busy  in  seeking  after  her 
gifted  children,  had  not  time  to  stamp  her  seal 
of  immortality  upon  his  brows  before  they  with- 
ered beneath  the  cold  hand  of  death.  And  yet  a 
few  kindred  spirits  were  found  to  lament  him, 
and  mourn  over  the  sudden  quenching  of  a 
mighty  intellect,  whose  living  glory  they  might 
have  decried  and  envied  ;  —  but  death  sanctifieth 
all  thinofs. 


192  RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTEB 

We  were  young  at  that  time,  and  anxious  to 
pay  tribute  with  the  rest  at  the  shrine  of  de- 
parted genius,  knowing  him  only  through  his  own 
tender  and  beautiful  rcvealings;  but  although 
the  rock  of  inspiration  was  repeatedly  struck,  no 
answering  strain  came  forth  at  our  bidding ;  we 
were  not  in  the  mood.  Thought  flowed  too  rap- 
idly to  be  chained  and  cramped  into  lines  each 
ending  in  a  rhyme,  and  flinging  aside  our  tablets, 
we  went  forth,  lured  by  the  sound  of  joyous 
voices,  and  light  laughter,  and  joined  the  merry 
group  upon  the  lawn.  The  young,  the  beautiful, 
yea,  and  the  gifted,  even  as  he  had  been,  were 
there 

"  Smiling  as  if  earth  contained  no  tomb." 

But  there  was  one  among  them,  a  widow,  aged 
it  would  seem  more  by  grief  than  time,  whose 
pale  sweet  face  and  low  voice  had  won  us  to  her 
side  all  that  summer  day;  and  by  w^hom  we 
again  lingered,  as  we  are  apt  to  do  where  we 
feel  that  our  presence  confers  pleasure. 

"  You  have  been  weeping,"  said  she  kindly. 

"  Yes,  for  I  have  been  thinking  of  him." 

"  Silly  child !  And  yet  it  is  well  that  the 
actual  troubles  of  life  have  not  yet  arisen  to 
sweep  away  these  ideal  griefs  and  sympathies. 
After  all  it  is  a  happy  period  — 

When  every  heart  appears 

The  temple  of  high  thought,  and  noble  deed  ; 


RECOLLECTIONS    O^    THE    GIFTED.  193 

When  our  most  bitter  tears 
Fall  o'er  .some  melancholy  pas^e  Me  read,  — 

but  it  soon  passes  away.'' 

"  Not  always,  surely  ? " 

"  Almost  invariably.  The  fountain  of  a  grief 
which  in  youth  is  perpetually  overflowing,  and 
whose  waters  soothe,  even  while  they  sadden,  is 
soon  withered  up  by  scorn  and  anguish.  And 
age,  with  all  its  accumulated  miseries,  sheds 
fewer  tears  than  childhood  over  its  ideal  and 
imaginary  sorrows :  and  yet  he  was  worthy  of 
your  lamentations." 

"  You  knew  him,  then  ?*' 

"  We  have  met,  but  it  was  years  ago.  I  was 
staying  on  a  visit  at  the  same  house  where  he 
first  became  acquainted  with  her  of  whom  his 
latter  poems  breathe  so  sweet  a  spirit  of  tender- 
ness and  regard.  She  was  my  school-fellow  and 
intimate  friend,  although  many  years  my  junior." 

"  And  he  loved  her  ?  After  all  she  is  to  be 
envied." 

"  So  she  always  said,  and  used  to  wonder 
what  she  could  have  done  to  merit  so  much  hap- 
piness ;  for  she  had  a  meek  and  humble  spirit, 
and  was  well  suited  to'be  the  bride  of  a  poet." 

"  How  she  must  have  worshipped  him !" 

"  Yes,  so  she  did,  I  believe,  until  she  learned 
to  love  him  still  more.     It  was  a  strange  tale, 
that  meeting ! " 
17 


194  RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTED. 

And  the  widow  bowed  down  her  pale  face 
upon  her  hands,  while  the  spirit  of  the  past  stole 
over  her  like  a  dream  of  old  days.  Vie  whh- 
drew  a  little  apart,  and  sat  down  side  by  side 
upon  the  grass ;  and  that  low  voice  rose  up  like 
a  strain  of  melancholy  music,  betw^een  the  pauses 
of  which  came  the  merry  laughter  of  the  gay 
dancers  on  the  lawn. 

"  A  Christmas  in  an  old  country  house  is  either 
a  very  dull  affair  or  quite  the  contrary ;  the  one 
I  am  about  to  describe  was  the  latter.  Besides 
an  agreeable  party  domesticated  within  doors,  all 
equally  ready  to  amuse  or  be  amused,  we  had 
always  some  visitor  drop  in  of  an  evening,  and 
generally  wound  up  vj'ith  a  dance,  or  a  game  of 
forfeits,  to  please  the  children,  in  which  children 
of  a  larger  growth  were  not  ashamed  to  join. 

"  At  the  time  of  which  we  speak,  some  little 
excitement  was  occasioned  by  the  proposed  visit 
of  Mr.  Noel  Fletcher,  (for  we  will  know  the  poet 
only  by  that  name.)  He  had  been  intimate  at 
college  with  the  son  of  our  worthy  host,  and 

cheerfully  accepted  his  invitation  into  D ; 

and  as  the  day  approached,  my  friend  Gay  Pem- 
berton,  who  scarcely  ever  had  his  volume  of 
poems  out  of  her  hand,  and  w'as  even  accused  of 
sleeping  with  it  under  her  pillow,  spoke  of  noth- 
ing else  but  his  expected  arrival.  We  have 
wondered  since  whether  this  was  merely  the 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTED. 


195 


result  of  her  romfntic  and  highly-wrought  feel- 
ings, or  occasioned  by  a  dim  foreboding  of  how 
intimately  their  future  destinies  were  to  be  knit 
together. 

"  It  was  the  evening  before  the  day  on  which  he 
was  to  have  come,  and  everything  that  was  said 
or  done  returns  to  my  mind  as  though  it  were 
but  yesterday.  A  few  accidental  visitors  had 
dropped  in  as  usual,  among  whom  was  the  cler- 
gyman of  the  place,  and  a  young  man  with  a 
bright  florid  complexion,  and  a  pair  of  the  mer- 
riest blue  eyes  in  the  world,  whose  name  I  did 
not  catch  ;  and  who,  after  romping  with  the  chil- 
dren until  their  bed-time,  came  and  flung  him- 
self full  length  on  a  couch  near  where  we  sat, 
and  taking  up  a  newspaper,  seemed  thoroughly 
comfortable  and  at  home. 

"  Gay  Pemberton  was  in  one  of  her  wildest 
humors,  looking  so  happy  and  beautiful  all  the 
time,  that  it  was  impossible  to  chide  or  be  angry 
with  her  ;  and  but  little  work  went  on  among  the 
noisy  group  she  had  collected  around  her.  Even 
the  whist  players  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  her 
merry  laughter,  and  smiled  lOO,  without  knowing 
why.  And  then  on  a  sudden,  as  we  must  have 
noticed  on  a  bright  summer  day,  the  sun  went 
in,  leaving  a  brief  shade  even  more  delightful 
from  contrast. 


196  RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTED. 

"  '  How  I  wish  lo-mcrrow«vvere  come  ! '  said 
she,  thoughtfully. 

"  '  That  is,  if  it  bring  the  poet,  but  not  else,' 
we  playfully  rejoined. 

*"  Ah  !  it  is  sure  to  do  that,  for  Morris  showed 
me  the  letter,  —  and  he  wTites  such  a  beautiful 
hand  !  —  promising  to  be  with  Lim  on  Thursday, 
without  fail.  How  I  longed  to  keep  it,  but  I 
feared  he  would  laugh  at  me.' 

'"It  was  more  than  probable.  But  you  must 
get  Mr.  Fletcher  to  write  something  in  your 
album.' 

"  '  If  he  speaks  to  me,  I  shall  certainly  ask 
him,  if  it  is  only  his  name.' 

"  '  If  he  speaks  to  you  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,  for  I  have  fancied  him  proud  and  re- 
served, as  all  geniuses,  they  say,  are.  You  will 
think  me  very  silly,  but  I  know  what  he  will  be 
like,  as  well  as  if  we  were  old  friends,  and  am 
almost  confident  that  I  should  recognize  him, 
were  we  even  to  meet  elsewhere.' 

"'Perhaps  this  is  he?'  said  I,  as  the  door 
opened  to  give  admittance  to  the  village  doctor, 
a  marvellous  resemblance  to  Shakspeare's  far- 
famed  apothecary.  While  at  that  moment  our 
opposite  neighbor  looked  up  as  if  he  had  found 
something  vastly  entertaining  in  his  newspaper, 
and  laughed  outright,  almost  as  joyously  as  Gay 
herself  had  done  but  a  short  time  previously. 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTED. 


197 


"  '  I  should  like  to  hear  Miss  Pemberton's  ideal 
of  a  poet,'  exclaimed  a  young  lady. 

'"Well,  then,  I  will  give  it  to  you,  in  order 
that  you  may  compare  it  with  the  original.  He 
is  tall,  and  pale,  as  the  gifted  ever  are ;  with  a 
magnificent  brow  —  dark,  dreamy  eyes  —  and  a 
proud  lip,  whose  smiles  are  only  for  the  very 
few, but  its  scorn  for  the  whole  world;  whom  all 
worship,  but  it  is  the  privilege  of  but  one  or  two 
to  love  ! ' 

"  '  A  dangerous  privilege,  if  we  are  to  believe 
the  wild  chronicles  of  their  lives,'  replied  another; 
'  crreat  talents  are  said  to  be  for  the  world  —  not 
for  domestic  life.' 

"'But  why  should  this  be?'  asked  Gay, 
almost  sadly  —  and  there  were  none  to  answer. 
It  is  a  question  which  will  probably  never  be 
solved.  We  are  told  by  one,  herself  a  poetess, 
and  a  very  sweet  one  too,  that 

'  Fame's  laurel  wreath 
Distils  its  poison  oil  the  brow  beneath ;' 

but  left  to  draw  our  own  conclusions  from  the 
truthful  experience  of  daily  life,  how  far  its 
blighting  influence  extends  around  the  charmed 
circle  of  affection. 

"  '  Well,'  exclaimed  Gay,  at  length,  for  noth- 
ing ever  damped  that  sanguine  and  joyous  spirit 
for  many  moments  together,  '  I  dare  say  if  the 
private  histories  of  all  were  sought  after,  and 
17# 


198  RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTED. 

revealed  like  those  of  the  gifted,  they  would  be 
found  much  the  same  in  the  end.  Or,  supposing 
it  true  that  genius  is  irritable  and  exacting ; 
again  I  say,  a  glorious  privilege  is  hers  to  whose 
lot  it  falls  to  soothe  and  minister  to  it,  catching 
glimpses  of  a  mighty  intellect  which  should  daz- 
zle and  blind  her  to  weakness  inseparable,  after 
all,  from  mortality.' 

"  Our  opposite  neighbor  laid  down  the  news- 
paper ;  perhaps  he  found  it  vain  to  try  and  read 
in  our  vichiity,  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  Gay, 
with  a  look  of  undisguised  admiration,  of  which 
the  young  enthusiast  was  utter!"  unconscious. 

"  '  But  have  you  quite  finished  your  descrip- 
tion of  the  poet  ? '  asked  her  fair  interrogator. 

"  '  Yes,  I  think  so,  all  but  his  voice,  which  of 
course  is  low  —  sweet  —  and  marvellously  elo- 
quent ! ' 

"  '  Have  you  forgotten  what  Dr.  Johnson  says 
upon  this  subject?'  asked  the  gentleman  I  have 
before  mentioned,  joining  in  the  conversation 
quite  naturally,  while  Gay  answered  him  in  the 
same  frank  spirit. 

"  '  Yes,  indeed.     What  was  it  ?' 

"'The  transition,'  he  tells  us,  'from  an  au- 
thor's book  to  his  conversation  is  too  often  like 
an  entrance  into  a  large  city  after  a  distant  pros- 
pect. Kemotely  we  see  nothing  but  spires  of 
temples,  and  turrets  of  palaces,  and  imagine  it 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTED.  199 

the  residence  of  splendor,  grandeur,  and  magnifi- 
cence ;  but  when  we  have  passed  the  gates,  we 
find  it  perplexed  with  narrow  passages,  disgraced 
with  despicable  cottages,  embarrassed  with  ob- 
structions, and  clouded  with  smoke.' 

"  '  Ah  !  Dr.  Johnson  wf.s  a  bear  ! '  said  the 
girl,  wilfully;  and  then  their  wild  and  gleeful 
laughter  mingled  so  joyously,  that  many  joined 
in  it  from  very  sympathy. 

"  '  Oh  !  if  this  book  were  mine  ! '  continued 
Gay,  after  a  pause,  and  still  referring  to  the  same 
endless  theme,  '  with  Noel  Fletcher's  name  writ- 
ten thus,  with  his  own  hand,  I  think  I  should 
have  nothing  left  to  wish  for.' 

"  '  And  yet  compliments  is  a  cold  term,'  said 
our  blue-eyed  friend,  archly.  '  Would  you  not 
rather  have  it,  with  the  author's  love  ? ' 

" '  No,  indeed,  his  kind  regards  would  more 
than  content  me  —  his  love  has  been  too  fre- 
quently bestowed.' 

"  '  Never,  I  will  venture  to  swear  ! '  interrupted 
her  companion,  vehemently. 

"  '  Then  you  have  not  read  his  works,'  replied 
Gay,  turning  over  the  pages,  which  she  almost 
knew  by  heart,  with  a  rapid  finger.  '  See,  here 
is  positive  conviction  —  "  To  n^"  Beloved  One." 
Not  to  mention  twenty  other  sweet  and  tender 
sonnets  addressed  "To  Mary,"  &c.  Nay,  I 
should  say  that  he  had  not  only  been  in  love, 


200  RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTED. 

and  that  too  more  than  once,  but  had  likewise 
been  disappointed !  Or  why  so  eloquent  upon 
blighted  affection,  and  broken  hearts?  Why 
address  those  touching  lines  of  "  The  Forsaken 
to  the  False  One,"  which  must  haunt  her  whole 
future  life,  like  an  u.iforgotten  voice  ?  And  yet 
I  cannot  fancy  any  girl  flinging  away  in  very 
wantonness  the  rich  gift  of  such  a  heart  as  his.' 

"  '  But  surely  you  must  be  aware,'  returned 
he,  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  and  more  earnestly 
than  the  subject  seemed  to  demand,  '  that  these 
are  merely  ideal  themes.  What  is  poetry  with- 
out love  ?  A  Vv-orld  without  sunshine  or  flowers. 
But  the  poet  needs  not  experience  every  subject 
on  which  he  writes,  while  he  can  create  and  im- 
agine them.  Nay,  where  he  feels  most,  he  is 
least  likely  to  do  justice  to  his  task.' 

" '  And  yet,'  replied  Gay,  '  this  is  stripping 
romance  of  its  brightest  spell :  we  should  seldom 
weep  over  fictitious  sorrows,  knowing  them  to  be 
such.  It  is  Louis,  King  of  Bavaria,  I  think,  who 
says,  "  Out  of  the  heart  "alone  shall  that  unfold 
itself  which  shall  truly  go  to  the  heart  again  ! " ' 

"'Nevertheless,'  said  her  companion,  with  a 
vexed  air,  '  I  will  venture  to  affirm  that  Noel 
Fletcher  is  no  m^re  in  love  than  I  am  ! ' 

"'Well,  I  shall  be  glad  to  believe  that  his 
heart  is  really  not  the  seared  and  blighted  thing 
he  describes  it.' 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTED.  201 

"  '  Pshaw  !  all  romance  an^'  folly  ! '  replied  our 
anti-poetical  friend,  abruptly.  While  Gay  looked 
like  one  but  half  convinced ;  and  remained  poring 
over  the  book  until  the  hour  of  rest ;  but  little 
more  conversation  passing  between  us  worthy 
of  narration. 

"  The  following  morning  I  was  to  start  on  a 
fortnight's  visit  some  thirty  miles  ofT,  but  to  re- 
turn time  enough  to  accompany  Gay  Pemberton 
to  her  happy  home,  where  another  succession  of 
merry  days  was  in  store  for  us.     Ah !  those  were 
pleasant  times  —  the  golden  days  of  our  youth! 
And  we  do  well  to  make  the  most  of  them,  for 
their  freshness  once  past  is  gone  forever !     The 
very  thought  of  having  to  be  up  early  kept  me 
wakeful   all   night,    otherwise,    perhaps.    Gay's 
gentle  voice,  for  we  slept  together,  would  have 
failed  to   arouse  me,  as  with   closed   eyes  and 
smiling  lips  she  repeated  one  of  Noel  Fletcher's 
sweetest  sonnets,  the  last  lines  dying  away  until 
they  became  almost  inaudible.     It  was  strange 
to  hear  such  poetry  so  given  at  that  hour ;  and 
sad  too,  for  the  subject  was  a  gloomy  one,  and  L 
could  not  think  but  I  w^as  dreaming  too,  and  so 
lay  quite  still  until  the  morning  sun  warned  me 
to  prepare  for  new  scenes.     Novelty  at  that  time 
was  but  another  word  for  pleasure,  and  Gay  was 
as  cheerful  and  busy  as  myself,  so  that  our  little 
treasures  were  soon  arranged,  and  we  both  sat 


202  RECOLLECTIOXS    OF    THE    GIFTED. 

down  on  the  nea  ^y  packed  box,  and  began  to 
talk  of  the  future. 

"  She  laughed  when  I  told  her  about  the  son- 
net which  she  had  repeated  in  her  sleep,  —  con- 
fessing that  it  had  occupied  her  last  waking 
hours,  and  that  she  was  very  silly,  but  should 
grow  wiser  some  day,  she  hoped,  —  pitying  me 
the  next  moment  for  being  obliged  to  go  away 
before  Noel  Fletcher's  arrival. 

"  *  But,  perhaps,  he  may  not  be  gone  on  your 
return,  although  they  say  he  is  so  much  sought 
after. — By  the  bye,  he  may  have  come  even 
now  for  aught  we  know,  for  I  remember  he  &aid 
in  his  letter,  ''Early  on  Thursday  morning;"  I 
will  just  run  down  and  ask  Morris.' 

"  She  did  so,  but  returned,  breathless  with  agi- 
tation, a  few  moments  afterwards,  ^nd  flinging 
herself  into  my  arms,  burst  into  a  passionate  flood 
of  weeping,  and  hid  her  burning  face  upon  my 
bosom.  They  were  the  flrst  tears  I  ever  remem- 
ber to  to  have  known  her  shed. 

"  '  Oh  !  take  me  wdth  you  I '  she  wildly  ex- 
claimed. '  If  you  love  me,  take  me  instantly 
away ! ' 

"  '  Impossible,  my  dear  child !  but  I  will  stay 
with  you,  if  you  will  tell  me  how  I  can  be  of 
service,  and  who  has  grieved  you  thus.' 

"  '  No  one.  It  is  all  my  own  fault ! '  And  hei 
sobs  redoubled  with  the  effort  to  speak. 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTED.  203 

.  "  At  this  moment  the  breakfast  bell  rang ;  and 
as  the  only  fault,  if  that  could  be  called  a  fault, 
which  I  could  ever  discover  in  our  worthy  host, 
was  a  most  rigid  adherence  to  punctuality  in  all 
things,  its  warning  was  not  to  be  disregarded. 

*' '  Go  down,'  said  Gay,  '  and  say  that  I  have 
the  headache  —  that  I  am  ill !  —  I  shall  be  calmer 
against  your  return,  or  you  will  have  heard  the 
story  of  my  folly  from  other  lips ;  but  do  not 
think  for  an  instant  of  giving  up  your  journey 
on  my  account  —  it  is  fit  that  I  should  suffer, 
and  be  despised  as  I  now  despise  myself!' 

"  I  obeyed  her  in  silence,  having  no  time,  be- 
sides being  too  bewildered,  to  put  any  further 
questions  then  ;  but  I  could  not  help  observing 
that  when  I  delivered  my  message,  Morris,  the 
eldest  son  of  our  host,  laughed  outright,  and  stole 
a  mirthful  glance  at  our  blue-eyed  friend  of  the 
previous  night,  who  was  comfortably  established 
at  the  breakfast  table  with  his  everlasting  news- 
paper. 

"  '  I  trust  Miss  Pemberton  is  not  serioilsly  in- 
disposed,' said  he,  kindly,  as  I  took  the  vacant 
place  by  his  side. 

"  '  No,  I  believe  not,  only  a  headache,'  and  then 
Morris  laughed  again  most  provokingly,  while 
his  friend  looked  almost  as  annoyed  as  myself. 

"  '  You  must  not  forget  to  tell  Gay,'  said  the 
former,  'that  Mr.  Noel  Fletcher  has  inquired 


204  RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTED. 

most  anxiously  after  her,  and  is  inconsolable  at 
her  absence.' 

"  '  Noel  Fletcher ! '  and  the  whole  truth  flashed 
upon  my  mind,  and  I  felt  half  inclined  to  be  angry 
with  the  poet  for  his  incognito,  but  that  he  seemed 
so  penitent ;  so  poor  Morris  had  the  full  benefit 
of  it,  and  after  all  he  was  most  to  blame  for  not 
properly  introducing  his  gifted  friend. 

"  But  how  was  Gay  employed  all  this  time  ? 
Doubtless  in  recalling  to  mind,  with  tears  of 
shame  and  vain  repentance,  all  that  had  passed 
between  them  on  the  previous  night.  No  won- 
der that  she  should  tremble  at  the  thought  of 
meeting  him. 

"  '  And  yet  how  rould  I  imagine,'  said  she, 
simply,  '  that  such  a  man  could  be  a  poet  ?  with 
his  bright  color  like  any  farmer,  and  his  merry 
eyes,  —  besides,  he  was  actually  embonpoint ! ' 

" '  How  amused  he  must  have  been  at  your 
description  of  him,'  said  I. 

"  Gay  colored,  but  she  grew  calmer  :  pride  — 
the  pride  which  rarely  deserts  a  woman  —  had 
come  to  her  aid ;  and  she  parted  from  me  with 
more  composure  than  I  had  expected.  Morris' 
triumph,  and  Mr.  Fletcher's  too,  if  he  felt  any, 
would  be  but  brief,  when  they  found  the  wild 
romantic  girl  transformed  into  the  proud  and  dig- 
nified woman.     And  I  pictured  to  myself  their 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTED.  205 

cold  embarrassed  meeting,  as  the  carriage  whirled 
me  away  to  fresh  scenes  and  pleasures. 

"  A  fortnight  —  how  soon  it  is  gone  when  we 
are  happy!  —  Fourteen  days,  then,  seem  only 
like  so  many  hours.  Poor  Gay,  I  had  forgotten 
all  about  her,  and  how  she  was  most  likely  long- 
ing for  my  arrival  to  go  back  to  her  quiet  home> 
the  spell  of  her  wild  yet  sweet  dreams  broken 
forever !  It  was  evening  when  I  returned  — 
there  were  lights  in  the  upper  rooms,  and  the 
sound  of  music  and  merry  laughter.  And  yet, 
somehow,  I  half  feared  that  Gay  would  not  be 
found  among  that  mirthful  party,  nor  was  she. 
Morris  smiled  when  I  inquired  after  her,  even  as 
he  had  done  on  the  eventful  morning  of  my  de- 
parture ;  and  pointed  to  the  balcony,  which  was 
of  stone,  extending  the  whole  length  of  the  house, 
and  a  cool  and  pleasant  retreat  in  the  summer, 
although  scarcely  desirable  on  such  a  night  as 
this. 

"  '  Pshaw  I '  said  ]\Iorris,  '  who  ever  felt  the 
cold  at  eighteen,  beneath  such  a  glorious  moon, 
and  with  a  poet  for  a  companion  ? ' 

"  '  Mr.  Fletcher  is  still  here  then  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,  in  spite  of  his  numerous  engagements 
—  but  they  are  coming.'  And  a  moment  after- 
wards Gay's  arms  were  about  my  neck,  and  her 
sweet  voice  welcoming  me  back;  while  tears  — 
real  burning  tears,  in  spite  of  her  beaming  looks, 
18 


206  RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTED. 

fell  like  rain.  But  she  dashed  them  away  in  a 
moment,  asking  a  thousand  random  questions 
about  my  visit,  without  waiting  for  an  answer  to 
one  of  them.  While  Noel  Fletcher  stood  by 
with  folded  arms,  looking  as  delighted  as  if  she 
had  been  uttering  the  most  eloquent  harangue  in 
the  world;  his  blue  eyes  fairly  dancing  with 
happiness. 

"  '  And  now,'  said  I,  having  replied  as  briefly 
as  possible  to  her  numerous  queries,  '  I  am  quite 
ready  to  return  with  you  whenever  you  please.' 

"  'I  am  in  no  particular  hurry,'  said  Gay,  cast- 
ing down  her  eyes.  '  But  you  must  be  fatigued 
with  your  journey  —  shall  we  retire  ?' 

"  I  willingly  agreed,  while  Mr,  Fletcher  said 
laughingly,  although  I  believe  he  really  thought 
it  at  the  moment,  that  I  Vv'as  very  selfish  and  dis- 
agreeable, to  wish  to  keep  Miss  Pemberton  all  to 
myself;  and  then  in  a  changed  voice  turned  to 
whisper  a  very^  protracted  good-night,  which 
lasted  several  minutes  before  Gay  could  disen- 
gage her  hand  and  follow  me  up  stairs.  There 
was  little  need  of  words  —  on  the  dressing-room 
table  lay  a  small  and  elegantly  bound  book,  which 
I  knew  at  once  to  be  Noel  Fletcher's  Poems  ;  and 
when  Gay  took  it  up,  and,  smiling  through  her 
tears,  pointed  to  its  title  page,  and  we  read  there 
her  own  name  '  with  the  author's  love,'  I  asked 
no  more  questions,  but  rejoiced  with  the  un- 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTED.  207 

troubled  gladness  of  youth,  tliat  things  had  thus 
come  to  pass. 

"  It  is  needless  attempting  to  repeat  Gay's 
broken  history  of  what  had  taken  place  during 
my  brief  absence  ;  and  the  pains  Noel  Fletcher 
must  have  taken  to  satisfy  her  previous  doubts 
with  regard  to  the  ideality  of  his  poetical  loves 
and  sorrows ;  and  here  his  looks  were  certainly 
in  his  favor,  for  no  one  would  have  taken  him  to 
be  a  man  whose  heart  was  either  seared  or  broken. 
Then  he  had  to  reconcile  her  to  the  very  reverse 
of  her  wild  dream  —  to  apologize  for  those  merry 
eyes,  and  the  bright  healthful  glow  of  his  com- 
plexion, and  promise,  if  it  would  win  her,  to  be 
the  gloomy  being  she  had  described,  proud  to  all 
but  one,  so  that  one  might  be  Gay  Pemberton ! 
While  she  wondered  how  she  could  have  ever 
fancied  him  any  other  than  he  was,  —  and  owned 
for  the  thousandth  time  that  she  had  been  very 
silly ! 

"  And  now  I  would  fain  linger  over  this  part 
of  my  narrative,  relating  how,  as  I  have  before 
said.  Gay's  worship  of  the  poet,  the  genius,  had 
gradually  less  of  awe,  and  more  of  human  love 
in  it.  How  her  very  gentleness  disarmed  our 
playful  satire,  and  how  Noel  Fletcher  adored 
her,  while  his  verses  grew  no  less  eloquent  be- 
cause addressed  to  a  real  and  tangible  deity !  — 
His  introduction  to  her  venerable  parents  —  their 


208  RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTED. 

simple  bridal  —  and  how  rnerr}^  and  happy  we  all 
were  on  that  day.  It  seems  like  a  bright  dream 
long-  past !  "  —  And  the  widow,  when  she  arrived 
at  this  part  of  her  story,  closed  her  eyes  wearily, 
as  though  she  would  fain  the  vision  would  come 
again. 

"  Well,  you  know  the  end,"  said  she  at  length : 
"  of  the  double  wedding  which  took  place  at  that 
time,  there  are  left  two  v*'idows  and  no  bride- 
groom ! " 

There  was  another  pause,  after  which  she  con- 
tinued more  calmly,  but  still  without  reference  to 
her  own  history,  into  which  we  dared  not  inquire, 
but  only  guessed  that  it  must  have  been  a  very 
sad  one,— 

"  Oh  !  what  a  home  was  theirs  !  Gay's  sweet 
faith  had  been  the  true  one,  and  she  was  not 
called  upon  for  any  marvellous  degree  of  pa- 
tience and  endurance.  The  most  sanguine  im- 
aginings of  her  young  and  romance-loving  spirit 
were  more  than  realized ;  while  the  glorious 
voice  of  the  poet  went  abroad  like  a  blessing! 
Again  and  again  it  was  heard  —  it  found  its  way 
into  palace  and  cottage  —  and  then,  just  when  men 
began  to  look  for  its  coming,  as  for  a  familiar 
and  household  thing,  was  suddenly  hushed  for- 
ever !  Heaven  have  pity  upon  her  on  whom  this 
weary  silence  will  fall  the  heaviest ! " 

"  Amen,"  said  I  gently,  for  my  heart  was  full 


RECOLLECTIONS    OP    THE    GIFTED  209 

'*  To-morrow,"  continued  the  widow,  "  I  start 
for  her  solitary  abode.  They  say  she  is  ill,  but 
I  do  not  pray  for  her  recovery  unless  it  please 
God,  but  would  rather  supplicate  that  in  his 
mercy  he  would  take  her  to  himself!  There  is 
no  more  happiness  for  her  in  this  world  now. 
Nay,  do  not  weep,  my  poor  child!"  she  added, 
laying  her  withered  hand  kindly  upon  my  bowed 
head.  "  After  all,  it  is  a  glorious  earth  we  live 
in,  especially  to  the  young;  and  there  are  a 
thousand  happy  wives  and  mothers  to  one  widow 
such  as  I.  The  gifted  are  not  always  taken,  and 
while  sorrow  is  isolated,  and  seldom  to  be  met 
wdth,  joy  aboundeth  everywhere.  Hark!  how 
they  laugh  !  You  should  be  with  them,  and  not 
here;  but  age  and  grief  are  apt  to  make  one 
selfish." 

That  night  we  went  to  sleep  thinking  of  all 
that  we  had  heard  during  the  day,  but  more 
especially  of  Gay  Pemberton  and  the  poet,  and 
dreamed  that  a  certain  fairy  tale  which  had  made 
the  charm  of  our  childhood  was  realized,  and  the 
genius  of  the  future  stood  ready  to  bestow  any 
one  gift  we  liked  to  ask  for — but  it  was  to  be 
but  one.  There  was  health,  for  the  lack  of 
which  all  other  pleasures  were  continually  losing 
their  zest,  —  riches,  which  should  command  the 
world,  —  beauty,  how  often  yearned  and  wept 
for,  —  fame,  more  tempting  than  them  all,  and 


210  RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTED. 

the  only  one  which  would  survive  the  tombs, — 
and  yet  we  hesitated,  while  the  bright  face  of 
the  spirit  smiled  calmly  on  us,  and  the  smile 
brought  back  as  with  a  spell  the  memory  of  all 
that  we  had  heard,  and  our  choice  was  instantly 
made  ;  —  our  one  wish  —  Maij  we  never  survive 
those  ive  love !  For  what  is  health  when  we 
pray  as  that  widow  prayed  to  die?  —  riches, 
when  those  with  whom  we  would  share  them 
are  gone  away? — beauty,  which  was  sought 
and  prized  but  to  win  the  regard  of  those  eyes 
which  death  hath  closed  ?  —  or  fame,  dear  only 
that  one  might  well  be  proud  of  us  ?  And  me- 
thought  the  fairy  looked  pleased  with  our  choice, 
and  then  the  whole  vision  passed  away. 

The  following  morning  came  a  brief  note  from 
our  new  friend.  "  Rejoice  with  us,"  she  wrote, 
"  it  is  all  over  !  The  prayer  of  the  broken  heart 
has  been  heard,  and  they  are  together  again  in 
heaven ! " 

Years  have  rolled  on  since  then,  and  there  are 
none  left  to  recognize  the  above  sad  and  truthful 
sketch ;  did  we  think  otherwise,  it  would  never 
have  been  written :  and  yet,  like  the  fables  of 
childhood,  it  has  its  moraL  That  the  gifted  are 
neither  raised  by  their  genius  above,  nor  formed 
to  live  without,  the  pale  of  human  love  and  sym- 
pathy, but  common  clay  even  as  ourselves, — 
loving  —  trusting  —  doubting — too  often  erring! 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    GIFTED. 


21 


With  good  intents,  marred  in  the  acting  oft, 
With  heavenward  thoughts  that  fail  thro'  weariness, 
And  droop  the  wing  while  yet  the  glance  aspires; 
Having  much  cause  for  gratitude,  —  but  more 
For  peuiieuce  sincere  ;  yet  how  infirm  1 


212 


TO    A    PROFILE. 

BY     B.      BARTON. 

I  KNEW  thee  not  I  then  wherefore  gaze 
Upon  thy  silent  shadow  there, 

Which  so  imperfectly  portrays 

The  form  thy  features  used  to  wear  ? 

Yet  have  I  often  looked  at  thee 

As  if  those  lips  could  speak  to  me. 

I  knew  thee  not !  and  thou  could'st  know, 

At  best,  but  little  more  of  one 
Whose  pilgrimage,  on  earth  below, 

Commenced  just  as  thine  own  was  done  ; 
For  few  and  fleeting  days  were  thine. 
To  hope  or  fear  for  lot  of  mine. 

Yet  few  and  fleeting  as  they  were, 
Fancy  and  feeling  picture  this, 

They  prompted  many  a  fervent  prayer. 
Witnessed,  perchance,  a  parting  kiss  ; 

And  might  not  kiss,  and  prayer,  from  thee, 

At  such  a  period,  profit  m.e  ? 

Whether  they  did  or  not,  I  owe 
At  least  this  tribute  to  thy  worth ; 


TO    A    PROFILE.  213 

Though  little,  all  I  can  bestow, 

Yet  fond  affection  gives  it  birth  : 
And  prompts  me,  as  thy  shade  1  view, 
To  bless  thee,  whom  I  never  knew ! 


214 


LUCY  AND   HER  LOVERS. 

BY     CAMILLA     T  0  U  L  M I N  . 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Lucy  ?  " 

"  Nothing-,  dear  aunt,"  replied  Lucy  Freeling, 
who  from  long  habit  thus  addressed  Mrs.  Law- 
son,  although  they  were  but  distantly  related. 
"  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  I  thought  you  had  been  crying,"  returned  the 
other;  "your  eyes  look  very  red." 

"  My  eyes  ache  rather,  as  they  often  do  now ; 
that  is  why  I  have  put  away  my  work  so  early." 

The  scene  I  would  paint  was  a  neatly-fur- 
nished, comfortable-looking  room,  in  one  of  those 
thousand  streets  of  London,  which,  without  hav- 
ing an}'  pretensions  to  consequence  or  considera- 
tion, are,  nevertheless,  thought  very  eligible  by 
a  large  class  of  people,  either  for  some  individual 
or  general  advantages.  In  one  corner,  as  if  to 
be  out  of  the  way  of  the  other  occupants  of  the 
room,  sat  a  young  man  of  about  four  and  twenty, 
working  diligently  at  his  ordinary  employment, 
that  of  a  watch-maker.  Various  implements  and 
particles  of  minute  mechanism,  whose  uses  are 
incomprehensible  to  the  ignorant,  were  before 
him,  and  the  strong  light  of  a  partially-shaded 


LUCY    AND    HER    LOVERS. 


215 


lamp  fell  precisely  on  his  work.  Jasper  Law- 
son  was  not  a  common  character,  and  perhaps 
his  employment,  which,  while  it  required  pa- 
tience and  a  certain  degree  of  attention,  like 
women's  needle-work,  afforded  much  opportunity 
for  the  self-instruction  of  thought  and  reflection, 
might  have  had  something  to  do  in  moulding  his 
disposition.  He  was  "  the  only  son  of  a  widow," 
to  whose  comfort,  even  in  the  matter-of-fact  re- 
spect of  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  he  largely 
contributed;  his  mother  having  no  other  depen- 
dence except  a  small  annuity,  secured  to  her 
from  some  benefit  society  to  which  her  husband 
had  belonged. 

Lucy  Freeling  was  the  daughter  of  a  distant 
relation,  and  had  been  left  an  orphan  in  early 
childhood ;  but  the  widow  had  so  tenderly  ful- 
filled the  offices  of  a  parent  that  Lucy  had 
scarcely  known  her  loss.  The  interest  of  a  few 
hundred  pounds,  which  should  have  been  hers 
when  she  became  of  age,  might  have  sufficed  to 
bring  her  up  in  the  station  to  which  she  belonged. 
But  for  a  few  years  Mrs.  Lawson  had  exceeded 
these  limits  for  the  purpose  of  giving  her  in- 
creased advantages  for  education  ;  and  when  she 
arrived  at  the  age  of  seventeen  had  paid  a  sum 
of  money  to  place  her  for  two  years  with  a  mil- 
liner and  dressmaker.  Although  she  was  not 
old  enough  to  make  a  legal  contract,  it  was  per- 


216  LUCY    AND    HER    LOVERS. 

fectly  understood  and  relied  on  that  this  advance, 
so  judiciously  made,  would  be  refunded  when 
Lucy  attained  her  majority.  Alas  !  before  that 
time  arrived,  the  trustee  in  whose  hands  her 
little  fortune  was  placed  became  a  bankrupt ; 
and  that  from  such  unexpected  causes,  that  the 
circumstance  of  Lucy's  money  being  engulphed 
in  the  general  ruin  arose  less  from  fraud  than 
from  imprudence.  But  the  eighty  pounds  debt 
which  had  been  incurred  was  now  a  dreadful 
burden  to  those  who  had  such  slender  means  of 
repaying  it.  Nevertheless,  the  right-minded  girl 
set  bravely  to  work,  determining  by  the  exercise 
of  an  art  in  which  she  had  so  prudently  been 
instructed,  to  make  up  the  sum  by  small  degrees. 
The  widow  had  also  put  by  from  her  little  in- 
come, and  Jasper  had  worked  hard  to  help  out 
the  repayment ;  and  now  the  struggle  was  nearly 
over  —  a  few  more  pounds  were  all  they  required. 
Lucy  not  unfrequently  worked  at  home,  instead 
of  at  the  large  establishment  where  she  was  em- 
ployed ;  for  her  home,  as  we  have  before  hinted, 
was  centrically  situated,  and  she  lost  very  little 
time  in  going  backwards  and  forwards  ;  this  had 
she  done  on  the  evening  on  which  we  have  intro 
duced  her.  But  there  was  another  person  in  that 
neat  and  comfortable  parlor,  and  one  who  was 
now  a  frequent  guest.  Ralph  Ashton  Avas  a 
lawyer's  clerk,  and  on  the  strength  of  a  situation 


LUCY   AND    HER    LOVERS.  217 

which  he  considered  rather  above  that  of  a  jour- 
neyman watchmaker,  he  thought  in  his  own 
heart  that  he  somewhat  condescended  in  joining 
their  tea  and  supper  table  three  or  four  nights  a 
week.  Not  that  such  a  feeling  was  by  any  means 
evident  from  his  manner ;  on  the  contrary,  the 
most  casual  observer  might  have  felt  pretty  sure 
that  Ralph  Ashton  was  doing  his  utmost  to  make 
himself  agreeable  to  Lucy  Freeling,  and  to  have 
betrayed  his  own  self-conceit,  or  certain  other 
attributes  of  his  nature,  would  have  been  a  mis- 
take unworthy  of  his  cunning.  He  was  good- 
looking,  so  far  as  a  coarse  kind  of  regularity  of 
features,  and  a  bright  dark  eye,  might  constitute 
good  looks  ;  and  he  had  a  smattering  of  superfi- 
cial knowledge,  and  a  certain  speciousness  of 
manner,  which  were  likely  enough  to  deceive 
a  single-minded  inexperienced  girl  like  Lucy. 
Even  Jasper,  his  superior  in  every  way,  but 
diffident  of  himself,  and  endowed  by  nature  with 
an  almost  womanly  delicacy  of  sentiment  and 
tenderness  of  feeling,  had  been  caught  by  the 
outward  seeming;  and,  though  the  knowledge 
racked  him  to  the  heart's  core,  did  not  wonder 
that  Lucy  regarded  him  with  interest. 

Not  so  the  widow.     From  the  first  moment  of 
Ashton's  acquaintance  with  her  son,  he  had  been 
disliked  by  her ;  although  when  pressed  hard  for 
19 


218  LUCY    AND    HER    LOVERS. 

a  reason  for  her  antipathy,  she  could  seldom  find 
any  but  the  most  trivial  ones. 

There  had  been  a  whispered  conference  be- 
tween those  who  were  all  but  acknowledged 
lovers,  accompanied  by  downcast  looks  and  a 
flushed  cheek  on  the  part  of  Lucy ;  but  Ealph 
Ashton  had  left  somewhat  earlier  than  usual, 
having  several  letters  to  write  for  his  employer 
before  morning,  and  Lucy,  pleading  more  than 
ordinary  fatigue,  retired  to  rest,  leaving  Jasper 
and  his  mother  alone.  He  had  extinguished  the 
lamp  by  which  he  worked,  and  only  the  light  of 
a  single  candle  remained  besides  that  of  the  sink- 
ing fire,  which  it  was  too  late  to  replenish.  He 
was  leaning  upon  the  mantel-piece,  looking  down, 
and  apparently  watching  the  flickering  embers  ; 
but  the  expression  of  his  countenance  was  sad 
almost  to  solemnity. 

"  Mother,"  he  exclaimed,  after  a  pause,  and  in 
a  voice  that  trembled  perceptibly,  "  I  suppose  it 
is  all  settled  ?  The  attempt  is  vain,"  he  added, 
"  I  cannot  hide  my  feelings  from  you." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is,"  replied  the  widow  sorrow- 
fully, "  though  Lucy  has  made  no  acknowledg- 
ment to  me  of  her  affection.  Poor  girl,  she  must 
suspect  that  the  choice  she  has  made  is  the  over- 
throw of  all  my  hopes  for  my  old  age." 

"  Don't  blame  her,  mother  —  perhaps  she  does 
not  know  all  this.    Long  ago  I  should  have  given 


LUCY    AND    HER   LOVERS. 


219 


myself  a  fair  chance,  and  told  her  that  I  loved 
her  hetter  than  with  a  brother's  love  ;  instead  of 
weighing  words  and  looks,  and  smothering  every 
expression  of  my  feelings,  from  the  romantic 
notion  that  I  would  not  ask  her  to  love  me  until 
I  was  in  business  for  myself,  and  could  place  her 
in  the  position  of  a  prosperous  tradesman's  wife. 
Idiot  that  I  was,  not  to  be  sure  that  I  should  be 
forestalled." 

"  And  now  that  you  are  so  near  the  summit  of 
your  wishes!"  apostrophized  his  mother. 

"  To  my  astonishment !  The  offer  of  Mond- 
son  to  take  me  into  partnership  is  a  most  ex- 
traordinary piece  of  good  fortune." 

"  He  knows  there  are  not  half  a  dozen  such 
workmen  in  London,  and  that  a  fortune  is  to  be 
made  by  the  improvements  you  have  suggested," 
replied  Mrs.  Lawson,  with  pride. 

"  Well,"  sighed  Jasper,  "  from  whatever  cause 
it  is,  it  comes  like  a  mockery  now.  I  doubt  if 
there  will  be  any  more  improvements  of  mine. 
I  have  little  heart  for  anything." 

"  I  can  hardly  forgive  her  for  this,  Jasper  — 
and  so  much  as  I  have  always  said  against  him—" 
"  There  it  is,  mother,"  interrupted  the  young 
man  almost  fiercely,  -  if  she  love  him  in  the  man- 
ner that  I  love  her,  the  more  he  is  blamed  the 
more  will  she  cling  to  him.  Why,  I  feel  if  she 
were  plunged  into  want  and  misery  —  her  beauty 


220  LUCY    AND   HER   LOVERS. 

gone,  or  with  evil  tongues  like  harpies  darting  at 
her,  such  an  hour  of  woe  would  be  the  one  in 
which  I  would  show  my  adoration  most  passion- 
ately, most  madly,  if  you  like  to  call  it  so  —  she 
would  still  he  herself^  and  it  is  herself  that  I 
love." 

Poor  Mrs.  Lawson  was  awed  and  pained  by 
her  son's  enthusiasm.  Like  many  other  excel- 
lent-hearted and  shrewd  persons,  she  was  quite 
incapable  of  following  those  subtle  emotions, 
which  are  the  most  real  in  the  world,  and  more 
than  any  others  influence  human  destinies ;  and 
yet  are  scoffed  at  by  a  large  number  of  persons 
as  "  miere  imagination,"  "  romance,"  "nonsense," 
and  a  long  list  of  et  ceteras  ! 

We  must  take  the  reader  a  little  behind  the 
curtain.  Ralph  Ashton  was  quite  as  much  in 
love  with  Lucy  Freeling  as  his  nature  permitted 
him  to  be;  but  his  was  that  common  passion,  a 
purely  selfish  one.  He  admired  her  beauty,  and 
would  be  proud  of  a  wife  thus  endowed,  and  with 
mental  acquirements  something  beyond  those 
common  to  her  station.  But  his  cunning  brain 
worked  upon  two  ulterior  objects  which  had 
nothing  to  do  with  these  personal  qualities.  It 
so  happened,  that  a  great  deal  of  the  business 
connected  with  the  affairs  of  the  bankrupt  trustee 
had  passed  through  the  office  in  which  Ashton 
was  employed,  and  he  knew  enough  of  it  to  form 


LUCY    AND   HER   LOVERS.  221 

an  almost  positive  opinion  that  Lucy  would  ulti- 
mately recover  her  little  fortune.  However,  he 
took  care  to  keep  this  knowledge  to  himself,  and 
wooed  her  apparently  with  the  most  disinter- 
ested affection,  not  even  at  present  hinting  of  the 
plan  which  in  his  own  mind  was  well-nigh  ma- 
tured, that  of  establishing  his  wife  at  the  west- 
end  of  the  town  as  a  fashionable  milliner,  well 
knowing  that  her  taste  and  skill,  and  superior 
manners,  would  be  sure  to  raise  her  to  an  emi- 
nence that  must  contribute  greatly  to  his  ease 
and  comfort.  In  short,  he  planned  to  himself 
becoming  something  like  that  very  contemptible 
creature,  of  deathless  memory,  the  renowned 
Mantilini. 

A  few  weeks  passed  over,  and  Ralph  Ashton 
and  Lucy  Freeling  were  engaged  to  be  married. 
In  justice  to  the  latter,  we  must  say  that  she  had 
only  very  lately  suspected  the  deep  feelings  which 
her  life-long  companion,  Jasper  Lawson,  enter- 
tained for  her,  and  the  discovery  made  to  her  by 
his  vexed  and  disappointed  mother  pained  her 
deeply.  It  is  true  Mrs.  Lawson  had  sometimes 
hinted  at  her  hopes  for  the  future,  in  phrases 
sufficiently  intelligible  to  Lucy,  but  alas  !  Jasper 
had  concealed  his  affection  but  too  well.  The 
time  had  been,  she  knew,  that  he  might  have 
won  her ;  but  it  was  gone  by,  she  said,  and  she 
could  but  regard  him  as  a  dear  brother. 
19^ 


222  LUCY    AND    HER    LOVERS. 

They  were  engaged,  and  all  seemed  fair  before 
them ;  and  Ealph  even  ventured  to  hint  one  day 
from  intelligence  which  he  declared  he  had  re- 
ceived but  a  few  hours  before,  that  perhaps  after 
all  Lucy  would  have  her  money.  He  did  this 
advisedly,  for  he  knew  it  was  very  likely  that 
the  news  would  reach  her  in  a  day  or  two  from 
another  quarter.  Sorrow  was  coming,  however, 
as  it  generally  does,  from  an  unexpected  source. 
The  "  aching"  of  her  eyes,  of  which  Lucy  had 
complained  as  the  result  of  excessive  application 
to  her  needle,  became  more  distressing,  and  on 
medical  advice  being  obtained,  the  most  alarm- 
ing symptoms  were  discovered.  With  all  the 
horrors  of  threatened  blindness  before  her,  Lucy 
was  confined  for  several  weeks  to  a  darkened 
room ;  and  months  must  elapse  before  there  was 
any  hope  that  under  the  most  favorable  circum- 
stances she  could  apply  herself  to  her  ordinary 
occupation.  During  this  time  Jasper  became  a 
junior  partner  in  the  establishment  to  which  he 
had  belonged,  and  through  his  mother,  his  in- 
creased income  contributed  to  the  comforts  and 
medical  attendance  of  the  poor  sufferer.  How 
could  the  poor  destitute  orphan  refuse  help  from 
him  who  only  asked  to  be  called  "  her  brother  ?" 
She  did  not  refuse  it,  nay,  she  felt  that  she  would 
rather  be  assisted  by  him  than  by  her  betrothed. 
How  stranq-e  are  the  intricacies  of  human  feeling"! 


LUCY    AND    HER    LOVERS.  223 

During  these  months  of  suffermg,  the  affairs 
of  the  bankrupt  trustee  had  been  thrown  into 
chancery,  and  there  was  little  hope  now  of  a  set- 
tlement of  them  for  years.  Poor  Lucy  !  little 
could  she  have  thought  that  the  day  w^ould  come, 
and  that  soon,  in  which  the  loss  of  her  money, 
months  of  suffering,  partial  blindness,  and  per- 
sonal disfigurement,  would  appear  to  her  like  so 
many  "  blessings  in  disguise  "  that  had  combined 
to  save  her  from  a  gulf  of  misery  and  ruin. 

When  the  cure,  so  far  as  it  could  be  effected, 
was  complete,  a  white  film  still  remained  to  mar 
the  beauty  and  obscure  the  vision  of  one  of  those 
deep  blue  eyes,  which  had  seemed  like  stars  of 
light  and  love  to  poor  Jasper  Lawson.  More- 
over the  oculists  declared  that  the  preservation 
of  the  other  eye  depended  on  the  most  careful 
abstaining  from  anything  like  straining  the  visual 
organs. 

Only  a  few  days  had  elapsed  since  this  fiat 
went  forth,  and  but  once  had  Ralph  Ashton  seen 
Lucy  since  the  bandages  were  removed,  when 
she  received  a  letter  from  him,  dictated  by  that 
one  virtue,  wdiich  those  v/ho  possess  no  other  are 
ever  ready  to  put  prominently  forward  —  Pru- 
dence. It  pointed  out  some  facts,  which  she 
really  must  have  known  before,  and  among  them 
the  great  change  in  their  future  prospects  her 
affliction  had  made  ;  hinted  very  intelligibly  at 


224  LUCY    AND    HER    LOVERS. 

the  wisdom  of  a  separation,  and  concluded  by 
mentioning  that  unless  she  desired  to  see  him  he 
should  refrain  from  calling  again,  and  signing 
himself  "  ever  her  sincere  friend  ! " 

Lucy  Freeling  was  for  a  while  stunned  by  the 
blow ;  but  though  her  young  and  susceptible 
heart  had  been  caught  and  led  astray,  it  was  of 
a  nature  too  fine  to  be  broken  by  a  mockery  —  a 
falsehood. 

"  Do  not  tell  me  not  to  weep,"  she  exclaimed, 
a  few  days  afterwards,  as  she  sat  between  Mrs. 
Lawson  and  her  son,  with  a  hand  in  one  of  each  ; 
"  I  know  you  would  comfort  me  as  dearest  mother 
and  brother  might.  But  do  not  tell  me  not  to 
weep.  It  cannot  be  that  man  whom  I  have  loved ; 
and  with  these  foolish  tears  there  seems  to  pass 
away  some  dream,  some  folly  —  better  this  — 
better  this  —  a  thousand  times  than  to  have  been 
his  wife.    I  feel  it  so.    Believe  it.    I  do  indeed." 

A  sharp  irrepressible  cry  escaped  Jasper  Law- 
son,  and  both  his  mother  and  Lucy  turned  to- 
wards him.  One  look  was  exchanged,  and 
throwing  himself  passionately  beside  her,  he 
twined  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  pressed  her 
to  his  heart  with  an  impulse  that  would  not  be 
stayed. 

"  Lucy,"  he  exclaimed,  "  there  is  one  whose 
heart  has  been  filled  with  thoughts  of  you  for 
years;  to  whom  you  are  the  same  in  sickness 


LUCY    AND   HER    LOVERS.  225 

and  in  health  ;  rich,  or  in  poverty ;  with  beauty- 
perfect,  or  with  beauty  blemished  ;  his  heart  does 
not  feel  the  difference  —  it  is  yourself  he  loves, 
no  conjured  image  of  a  youthful  fancy.  Mother, 
mother,  did  I  not  tell  you  this  when  hope  was 
dead  within  me  ? " 

Is  there  much  wonder  that  Lucy's  heart,  re- 
leased from  the  sway  of  a  phantom  love,  clung 
now  and  forever  to  the  Tried  and  the  True  ? 


226 


FIRESIDE    AFFECTIONS. 

BY    MARY    LEMAN     GILLIES. 

The  man  who  sits  down  in  a  virtuous  home, 
however  humble,  in  which  his  own  industry 
enables  him  to  breathe  the  atmosphere  of  inde- 
pendence, and  his  wife's  management  to  enjoy 
cleanliness  and  comfort,  has  a  vast  scope  for  the 
creation  of  happiness.  The  minds  of  his  chil- 
dren, —  of  his  wife,  —  his  own  mind,  are  so  many 
microcosms,  which  only  ask  to  be  inquired  into 
and  developed,  to  reveal  hoards  of  wealth,  which 
may  be  coined  into  current  enjoyment.  We  are 
ever  too  little  sensible  of  the  good  immediately 
within  our  grasp ;  too  ready  to  cavil  at  difficul- 
ties and  to  declare  them  impossibilities.  A  great 
man  once  said  there  were  no  such  things,  and  as 
all  proverbs  have  their  foundation  in  practical 
truth,  this  idea  may  receive  confirmation  from 
the  common  phrase  —  "  Where  there  is  a  will 
there  is  a  way."  It  is  certain  that  the  difference 
between  what  zeal  and  energy  will  accomplish 
with  small  means,  compared  with  what  power, 
ill  applied  or  feebly  applied,  will  long  leave  un- 
achieved, is  most  astounding.  Few  are  those 
who  have  not  to  reproach  themselves  with  su- 


FIRESIDE    AFFECTIONS. 


227 


pineness,  or  a  prodigal  waste  of  time  and  re- 
sources ;  few,  who,  when  they  look  back  upon 
the  field  of  past  experience,  but  feel  how  barren 
they  have  left  the  track  which  might  have  been 
richly  cultivated.  Let  ns  instantly  reform.  The 
present  will  become  the  future ;  let  us  resolve 
that  it  shall  be  rich  in  fruit,  delicious  to  the  re- 
verting spirit  of  review,  and  yielding  good  seed 
for  the  progressive  path  before  us.  The  travel- 
ler rarely  begins  with  his  own  country ;  in  like 
manner,  the  searcher  after  enjoyment  too  often 
looks  beyond  home ;  too  late  in  life's  journey, 
when  little  of  either  strength  or  time  remains, 
this  is  regretted.  In  the  case  of  home,  the  early 
neglect  is  usually  irretrievable,  where,  we  may 
be  certain,  if  flowers  are  not  cuhivated,  weeds 
will  spring,  —  where  the  violet  and  the  rose 
might  have  charmed  our  senses,  the  nettle  and 
night-shade  will  offend  them.  Fenelon  was  ac- 
customed to  say,  "  I  love  my  family  better  than 
myself;  my  country  better  than  my  family  ;  and 
mankind  better  than  my  country ;  for  I  am  more 
a  Frenchman  than  a  Fenelon,  and  more  man 
than  a  Frenchman."  This  is  an  instance  of 
reasoning  more  beautiful  in  theory  than  reducible 
to  practice ;  I  should  be  satisfied  with  the  man 
who  proceeded  almost  inversely  and  invested  his 
first  funds  in  the  domestic  treasury ;  these  once 
established  and  yielding  interest,  he  may  at  once 


228  FIRESIDE    AFFECTIONS. 

enjoy  and  dispense  at  will.  Many  spirits  are 
moving  on  the  stream  of  society,  and  the  rising 
waters  are  attesting  their  influence.  Religion 
has  its  preachers,  science  and  politics  their  lec- 
turers, but  there  seems  to  be  a  dearth  of  moral 
teachers  —  Apostles  of  the  Religion  of  Home, 
who  would  show  warmly  and  eloquently  to  as- 
sen:ibled  congregations  the  beauty  and  the  bene- 
fits of  the  home  affections,  —  the  dreadful  blank 
and  ruinous  bankruptcy  attendant  on  their  want 
or  violation  —  who  would  send  away  their  dis- 
persing auditors  with  awakened  hearts,  each  say- 
ing in  the  secret  chamber  of  its  individual  breast, 
— ''  Iioill  be  a  better  wife,  a  better  husband,  a 
better  parent,  a  better  child,  than  I  have  ever 
been."  Those  w^ho  should  make  this  resolve 
and  act  up  to  it  might  count  upon  an  exceeding 
great  reward  —  the  harvest  of  present  happiness, 
and  the  solace  of  future  consolation.  Of  the  lat- 
ter need,  let  it  ever  be  remembered,  none  will  be 
spared;  the  wedded  will  be  the  widowed  —  the 
parented  will  be  the  orphaned.  The  links  of  life 
are  not  more  surely  cemented  than  they  are  struck 
asunder,  and  happy  is  he  in  whose  living  hand 
is  left  the  fragment  of  the  chain  :  if,  when  the 
heart  that  loved  him  is  cold,  he  can  lay  his  hand 
upon  his  own,  and  say  —  "  I  never  neglected  her 
—  I  was  never  unkind;  we  suffered,  but  I  ever 
sought  to  make  her  share  of  sufTerinq-  the  least." 


FIRESIDE    AFFECTIONS. 


229 


As  happy  she  who  can  recollect  habits  of  devo- 
tion and  endurance,  that  she  kept  ever  present  to 
her  mind  how  he  was  toiled  and  tried  in  the  con- 
flicting struggles  of  the  world  abroad,  and  had 
sedulously   sought,  as   much   as  in   her  lay,  to 
create  for  him  a  recompense  at  home  —  sweet 
will  be  this  drop  in  her  bitter  cup  of  bereave- 
ment.    Without  risking  the  charge  of  partiality, 
I  may  say  this  consolatory  consciousness  of  self- 
abnegation  falls  more  often  to  the  lot  of  woman 
than  of  man.     Many  affecting  instances  in  the 
most  unfortunate  walks  of  life  are  often  recorded 
in  the  public  prints,  where  a  wife,  to  shield  a 
savage  assailant  from  punishment,  has  pleaded 
guilty  to  self-violence.     These  revolting  circum- 
stances will  disappear  with  the  class  in  which 
alone  they  are  found,  as  temperance  and  intelli- 
gence advance ;  for  hearts,  hundreds  of  hearts, 
that  were  originally  capable  of  tenderness,  have 
been  defrauded  of  the  blessed  privileges  of  loving 
and  dispensing  kindness,  because  unhappy  cir- 
cumstances denied  the  current  of  affection  per- 
mission to  flow  forth,  and  gentleness  and  sweet- 
ness  to   become   the   habit   of  behavior.     The 
kindlier  feelings,  checked  in  their  outset,  grow 
stagnant,  or  take  a  concealed  and  sluggish  course, 
never  yielding    sufficient    evidence   of  vitality. 
Thus   many  whom   self-culture    has    redeemed 
mentally  from  the  bondage  of  early  bad  habits, 
20 


230  FIRESIDE    AFFECTIONS. 

have  failed  to  attain  moral  emancipation  from 
the  thraldom  in  which  want  of  genial  manners 
principally  contributes  to  hold  them.  I  have 
noticed  even  a  false  shame  evinced  at  giving- 
any  evidence  of  susceptibility  to  the  lovable 
emotions,  and  rudeness  affected  to  hide  the  ten- 
derness that  was  yearning  to  burst  forth.  To 
these  I  would  say  in  the  beautiful  language  of  a 
popular  song :  — 

Love  now !  ere  the  heart  feels  a  sorrow, 
Or  the  bright  sunny  moments  are  flown  : 

Love  now  !  for  the  dawn  of  to-morrow 
May  find  thee  unloved  and  alone. 

Oh!  alone  —  alone  in  the  house  of  mourning! 
What  would  you  not  then  give  to  recall  the  time 
when  you  suffered  your  best  feelings  to  lie  in 
unprofitable  silence  ?  —  what  would  you  not  give 
to  recall  to  consciousness  —  consciousness  of  your 
love,  your  contrition  — the  heart  you  had  often 
hurt  by  apparent  indifference?  By  a  magic 
peculiar  to  death,  all  that  was  beautiful,  was 
amiable,  in  the  departed,  rises  on  the  stricken 
heart  of  the  survivor  with  renewed  beauty  ; 
while  in  the  same  proportion  his  own  merits 
shrink — his  own  demerits  are  magnified.  Spare 
thyself  this  bitter  addition  to  a  bitter  draught  ~ 
the  cup  may  not  pass  from  thee  !  Let  not  the 
sun  of  affection  go  down  while  it  is  yet  day,  or 
the  night  of  thy  mourning  will  be  dark  indeed ! 


FIRESIDE    AFFECTIONS. 


231 


It  seems  strange  that  mental  improvement  should 
be  more  easy  than  moral  amelioration  —  but  so 
it  is  ;  the  mind's  prejudices  fall  before  that  silent 
monitor,  a  book,  and  the  faculties  assert  their 
freedom  :  but  it  requires  more  effort  to  affect  a 
change  of  manner,  and  modes  of  expression  —  if 
the  amenities  have  not  grown  with  our  growth, 
and  strengthened  with  our  strength,  they  rarely 
take  kindly  to  the  soil.  Gentleness  and  tender- 
ness then  must  be  among  the  first  and  most  con- 
stant of  the  influences  exerted  over  the  infant 
mind.  The  general  increase  of  kindliness  and 
urbanity,  in  the  classes  in  which  the  graces  of 
society  have  been  least  regarded,  are  among  the 
best  advances  that  have  long  been  making.  The 
history  of  private  life  in  past  times  exhibits  a 
severity  of  conduct  towards  the  young,  from  a 
mistaken  notion  of  its  utility,  nay,  of  its  neces- 
sity, that  it  is  painful  to  recall.  The  sceptre  was 
not  deemed  more  essential  to  the  king,  the  mace 
to  the  keeper  of  his  conscience,  than  the  rod  to 
the  school-master;  and  if  portraits  of  these  birch- 
loving  pedagogues  could  be  presented  to  us,  no 
doubt  the  stereotyped  frown  would  be  found  on 
every  face.  Lady  Jane  Grey  records  that  she 
never  sat  in  her  mother's  presence,  and  severe 
study  was  a  sweet  shelter  from  such  severe  aus- 
terity. Joy  to  the  young  spirits  of  the  nineteenth 
century  —  everywhere  be  their  hearts  opened  by 


232  FIRESIDE    AFFECTIONS. 


kindness  and  encouragement!  Let  us  not  be 
niggards  of  the  moral  comfit  —  praise.  Credit 
to  a  dawning  or  dormant  capacity  is  often  what 
an  advance  of  capital  is  to  a  struggling  trader;  it 
assists,  perhaps  inspires,  the  exertion  that  enables 
him  to  realize  fortune  and  repay  the  loan  with 
interest.  I  would  present  to  every  parent  the 
following  beautiful  lines  by  Coleridge,  and  even 
suggest  their  being  committed  to  memory  :  — 

"  O'er  wayward  childhood  would 'st  ihou  hold  firm  rule, 
And  sun  thee  in  the  light  of  happy  faces, 
Love,  Hope,  and  Patience,  these  must  be  thy  graces, 
And  in  thine  own  heart  let  them  first  keep  school. 
For  as  old  Atlas  on  his  broad  neck  places 
Heaven's  starry  globe,  and  there  sustains  it ;  —  so 
Do  these  upbear  the  little  world  below 
Of  Education,  —  Patience,  Love,  and  Hope. 
Methinks  I  see  them  grouped  in  seemly  show, 
The  straightened  arms  upraised,  the  palms  aslope, 
And  robes  that,  touching  as  adown  they  flow, 
Distinctly  blend  like  snow  embossed  in  snow ; 

O  part  them  never !     If  Hope  prostrate  lie. 

Love  too  will  sink  and  die. 
But  love  is  subtle,  and  doth  proof  derive 
From  her  own  life  that  Hope  is  yet  alive  ; 
And  bending  o'er,  with  soul  transfusing  eyes, 
And  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  mother  dove, 
Woos  back  the  fleeting  spirit,  and  half  supplies  : 
Thus  Love  repays  to  Hope  what  Hope  first  gave  to  Love. 

Yet  haply  there  will  come  a  weary  day. 

When  overtasked  at  length 
Both  Love  and  Hope  beneath  the  load  give  way. 
Then  with  a  statue's  smile,  a  statue's  strength, 
Stands  the  mute  sister,  Patience,  nothing  loth, 
And,  both  supporting,  docs  the  work  of  both." 


233 


OLD   HAUNTS 


BY     M.     F.     TUPPER. 

I  LOVE  to  linger  on  my  track 

Wherever  I  have  dwelt, 
In  after  years  to  loiter  back, 

And  feel  as  once  I  felt ; 
My  foot  falls  lightly  on  the  sward, 

Yet  leaves  a  deathless  dint, 
With  tenderness  I  still  regard 

Its  unforgotten  print. 

Old  places  have  a  charm  for  me 

The  new  can  ne'er  attain, 
Old  faces  —  how  I  long  to  see 

Their  kindly  looks  again  ! 
Yet,  these  are  gone  :  —  while  all  around 

Is  changeable  as  air, 
I'll  anchor  in  the  solid  ground 

And  root  my  memories  there  ' 
20^ 


234 


THE  BLUE  EYES. 

BY     CAMILLA      TOULMIN. 
CHAPTEK.    FIRST. 

"  I  AM  very  late,  dear  Fanny,  but  I  have  twenty 
things  to  tell  you  of,  which  have  detained  me 
to-day,"  said  Walter  Bingham  to  his  wife,  as  she 
met  him  in  the  hall  with  a  smiling  face  and 
affectionate  welcome.  Their  house  was  a  small 
one,  in  an  obscure  and  fourth-rate  street;  but 
love  and  peace  were  the  guardian  angels  that 
kept  the  portal,  and  shed  a  fairy  lustre  through- 
out the  dwelling. 

"  Nay,"  replied  the  wife,  "  you  said  that  I 
must  not  expect  3'ou  before  five,  but  that  you 
would  not  be  later  than  six;  it  has  not  struck, 
so  I  am  sure  I  have  no  right  to  complain." 

"Ah,  Fan,  you  never  scold  —  but  you  know 
very  well  I  meant  to  be  home  long  ago," 

Walter  Bingham's  history  may  be  briefly  told. 
He  had  been  left  an  orphan  when  a  mere  child, 
and  confided  by  his  father's  will  to  the  guardian- 
ship of  his  maternal  uncle,  the  child's  nearest 
relative.  Mr.  Shirley  was  a  thoroughly  worldly 
man.     It  would  have  been  a  compliment  to  call 


THE    BLUE    EYES. 


235 


him  "a  man   of  the  world,"   seeing  that  this 
phrase,  ugly  as  it  is  in  its  most  general  meaning, 
nevertheless  implies  a  width  — a  grasp  of  mind 
Walter's  uncle  never  possessed ;  but  he  was  in- 
tensely worldly  and  selfish  in  all  his  aims,  nar- 
row as  they  were,  without  a  sympathy  beyond 
his  own  hearth,  from  which  indeed  in  this  sense 
the  orphan  was  excluded.    Fortunately,  Walter's 
fortune,  amounting  to  about  six  thousand  pounds, 
had  been  so  tightly  secured  in  the  hands  of  trus- 
tees, that,  beyond  receiving  the  appointed  allow- 
ance for  his  education,  even  Mr.  Shirley's  inge- 
nuity could  not  make  away  with  it  during  the 
boy's  minority ;  but  he  was  not  without  his  plans 
by  which  to  appropriate  it  nevertheless.     On  one 
dexterous  pretext  or  another  he  avoided  settling 
Walter  in  any  profession  or  pursuit  until  he  be- 
came of  age  ;  taking  care  meanwhile  to  make  his 
life   glide   away  so   smoothly,  that  delays   and 
changes  of  purpose  seemed  to  have  arisen  from 
the  most  fortunate  course  of  events. 

His  scheme,  however,  was  to  make  Walter's 
inheritance  the  nucleus  of  a  fortune  for  his  own 
son  Charles,  a  shrewd  youth,  who  added  to  his 
father's  characteristics  a  keener  intellect,  and,  if 
possible,  a  colder  heart.  In  due  time,  therefore, 
a  mercantile  project  was  brought  forward,  and  in 
a  few  weeks  a  partnership  was  formed  between 
the  cousins.     Charles  Shirley  was  at  this  time 


236 


THE    BLUE    EYES. 


seven  or  eight  and  twenty  :  it  was  represented 
that  his  experience  —  and  circumstances  had 
given  him  a  knowledge  of  business  —  should  be 
weighed  against  Walter's  money,  and  they 
started  on  terms  of  perfect  equality.  A  thriving 
business,  however,  once  established,  the  "  expe- 
rienced" partner  had  no  notion  of  another  reap- 
ing the  fruits  of  his  toil.  By  turns  appalling  his 
dupe  —  for  that  is  the  proper  term  —  by  the  pro- 
posal of  daring  and  unprincipled  speculations, 
and  impressing  him  with  a  sense  of  his  own  un- 
fitness to  cope  with  anxieties  so  great,  or  decide 
on  undertakings  so  important,  in  less  than  six 
years  he  contrived  to  dissolve  their  partnership 
—  leaving  Walter,  it  is  true,  but  a  wreck  of  his 
property,  and  yet  gaining  his  end  without  any 
violent  rupture  or  wordy  quarrel. 

The  cousins  were  as  opposite  as  light  from 
darkness.  Walter  Bingham's  was  a. nature  that 
would  not  swerve  aside  from  the  path  of  strict 
integrity  for  all  the  temptations  of  gain  which 
could  be  offered  him.  His  own  high  heart  had 
saved  him  from  many  of  the  evils  of  an  imper- 
fect and  even  corrupt  education ;  but  his  charac- 
ter had  developed  rather  late,  and  all  which  was 
valuable  he  had  learned  since  he  became  his  own 
master,  and  not  a  few  of  his  early  lessons  had  he 
unlearned  during  the  same  period.  He  was  now 
a  great  deal  too  self-reliant  to  be  made  the  dupe 


THE    BLUE    EYES. 


237 


of  any  one.     He  had  married,  too,  and  wedded 
with  a  gentle,  loving  woman,  whose  finely  tem- 
pered mind  responded  to  all  his  own  highest 
principles  and  noblest  aspirations.      Both  were 
devoid  of  vulgar  ambition,  both  tested  things  by 
their  reality  and  not  by  their  seeming;  and,  as 
is  ever  the  case  in  such  unions,  each  feh  from 
this  mutual  support  firmer  of  heart  for  all  high 
purposes  than  they  could  have  been  separately. 
One  or  two  plans  for  realizing  an  income  with- 
out dipping  into  his  diminished  capital  had  been 
adopted  by  Waker  Bingham,  and  two  or  three 
years  had  passed  in  these  experiments  without 
any  very  flattering  degree  of  success;  and  by 
the  autumn  day  on  which  they  are  introduced 
to  the  reader,  the  young  couple  were  seriously 
thinking  of  emigrating  to  Australia.     All  in  all 
to  each  other,  there  was  no  tie  in  England  to 
make  the  step  a  painful  one ;  and  they  knew 
that  under  any  sky  their  own  hearts  could  make 

home. 

Their  simple  dinner  w^as  soon  over,  and  mean- 
while Fanny  learned  how  her  husband  had  been 
disappointed  of  seeing  one  man  of  business,  and 
had  had  to  wait  half  an  hour  for  another,  and 
how  a  stoppage  of  vehicles  in  one  of  the  narrow 
great  thoroughfares  had  impeded  the  cab  he  had 
taken  to  save  time,  with  half  a  dozen  disasters 
fully  sufficient  to  account  for  his  coming  home 


238 


THE    BLUE    EYES. 


just  at  the  dinner  hour,  instead  of  in  time  to  take 
his  wife  a  pleasant  walk  previously.  The  even- 
ing was  chilly,  so  Fanny  proposed  a  fire;  and 
they  drew  their  chairs  cosily  near  the  cheerful 
blaze.  How  one  enjoys  the  first  fire  of  the  sea- 
son !  —  (or  for  that  matter  one  on  a  cold  summer's 
day)  —  it  really  has  an  exhilarating  effect,  some- 
thing akin  to  real  sunshine  after  gloomy  weather. 
And  then  Walter  Bingham  recapitulated  the 
day's  adventures,  and,  among  other  things, 
said  — 

"  I  have  been  haunted  all  day  by  the  counte- 
nance of  a  child  I  saw  this  morning,  and  have 
only  this  instant  remembered  of  whom  it  is  he 
reminded  me.  You  have  heard  me  speak  of 
Lucy  —  poor  Lucy." 

"  You  mean  the  poor  servant  girl  who  nursed 
you  so  tenderly  through  the  fever  when  you 
were  a  boy  ?  " 

"  I  do.  Her  who  was  driven  from  my  uncle's 
house  with  fiercest  anger  and  in  deepest  shame. 
Vain  were  all  my  after  efforts  to  discover  her 
fate,  for  I  was  but  a  powerless  youth,  and  those 
about  me  divined  that  I  felt  grateful  to  the  out- 
cast, and  pitied  where  they  only  scorned.  Fallen 
as  she  was,  there  must  have  been  much  of  the 
angel  left  uncorrupted  in  that  poor  girl's  soul. 
At  the  very  time  when  desertion  and  infamy, 
and  woman's  sorest  hour  of  trial,  were  hanging 


THE    BLUE    EYES. 


239 


over  her  like  the  gatherings  of  a  thunder-cloud, 
ready  to  discharge  its  death-boU,  she  watched 
beside  me  with  the  tenderness  of  a  sister  ;  —  yes, 
though  they  who  were  my  kindred  thought  all 
was  done  when  a  doctor  was  summoned  and  a 
hired  nurse  provided.  But  it  was  poor  Lucy 
who  in  the  lonely  hours  of  the  long  night  was 
always  near ;  who  could  shake  up  the  pillows  to 
a  form  and  softness  like  no  other;  and  from 
whose  hand  the  cooling  drink  seemed  always 
most  refreshing  :  and  then  when  I  used  to  grieve 
for  the  loss  of  her  rest,  she  would  smile  sadly 
and  say,  '  I  cannot  sleep  — let  me  stay  here  and 
be  of  use.'  And  often  and  often,  when  1  lay  be- 
tween the  fitful  waking  and  dozing  of  sickness, 
have  I  seen  her  blue  eyes,  glistening  with  the 
tears  which  did  not  flow,  raised  to  heaven  as  if 
in  silent  supplication;  while  her  countenance 
bore  a  look  of  sufl:ering  I  can  never  forget.  And 
just  that  look— just  those  blue  eyes  —  did  I 
behold  in  the  street  to-day." 

"  But  you  said  it  was  a  child  you  saw,"  replied 
the  young  wife,  looking,  perhaps  involuntarily, 
towards  a  pretty  little  crib  of  basket-work  and 
pink  silk,  where  slumbered  a  rosy  little  Walter. 
It  was  the  mention  of  a  child  that  had  first 
aroused  her  interest,  touching  some  strange 
heart-chord,  and  to  it  she  easily  reverted  again, 


240  THE    BLUE    EYES. 

even  from  poor  Lucy's  well  known  but  tragic 
story. 

"  Not  an  infant,  my  love,"  returned  Bingham, 
"  but  a  boy  of  some  twelve  or  fourteen  years  of 
age.  I  was  endeavoring  to  make  a  short  cut 
into  Holborn,  guiding  my  steps  rather  by  the 
compass  than  by  any  recollection  of  the  map  of 
London,  when  suddenly  I  found  myself  in  the 
midst  of  a  densely  populated  but  evidently  most 
wretched  neighborhood.     Lost  in  reverie  —  " 

"Oh,  do  break  yourself  of  that  habit :  I  am 
sure  you  will  be  run  over  one  of  these  days 
if  you  don't,"  interrupted  the  anxious  Fanny, 
taking  her  husband's  hand  ;  but  he  continued  — 

"  I  believe  I  was  first  aroused  from  my  mus- 
ings by  the  sensation  of  a  change  in  the  atmos- 
phere to  something  more  disagreeable  than  I  had 
ever  inhaled  before.  Close  and  fetid  it  was  to 
an  intolerable  degree ;  and  no  wonder  when  I 
looked  on  the  scene  around  me.  I  was  in  the 
midst  of  dilapidated  habitations,  which  yet 
seemed  swarming  with  tenants,  if  I  might  judge 
from  the  throngs  of  half-starved,  half-clad,  un- 
washed creatures,  of  both  sexes  and  of  all  ages, 
by  whom  I  was  surrounded.  Men,  brutalized  I 
would  fain  believe  by  ignorance,  with  a  stolid 
look,  unlighted  by  any  gleam  of  intelligence,  save 
that  which  to  my  mind  is  more  revolting  than 
idiotism  —  low  cunning;  women  of  demeanor  as 


THE    BLUE    EYES. 


241 


coarse,  and  using  language  as  foul,  as  their  com- 
panions, with  long  and  bushy  hair  matted  about 
their  faces,  and  all  —  both  men  and  women  — 
more  or  less  idling;  some  lounging  at  doors  and 
windows,  smoking  or  quarreling;  and  even  where 
there  was  the  pretence  of  employment,  it  was 
conducted  in  so  listless  a  manner  that  it  could 
not  be  associated  with  industry. 

"  The  children,  mimics  as  they  always  are, 
reflected  the  scene  around  them ;  yet,  though 
equally  abject,  emaciated,  and  miserable,  there 
was,  on  the  whole,  more  activity  about  them, 
more  human  intelligence,  —  they  seemed  only 
undergoing  the  process  of  corruption  —  the  seal 
of  utter,  irremediable  degradation  was  not  yet 
fixed.  Still,  even  in  their  play  —  and  how  won- 
derful it  is  that  such  children  should  play  at  all ! 
—  there  was  the  same  animal  selfishness  to  be 
traced  as  that  which  seemed  written  on  the  adult 
countenances,  the  same  chuckle  at  momentary 
success,  and  the  same  absence  of  all  generous 
sympathy. 

"  To  all  this,  however,  there  was  one  excep- 
tion. Sitting  on  a  door-step,  at  a  little  distance 
from  a  ragged,  dirty,  noisy  group  of  urchins,  was 
the  boy  to  whom  I  allude.  He  had  evidently 
been  weeping  bitterly,  but  there  was  a  lull  after 
the  passion  of  tears,  and  his  blue  eyes  were 
raised  to  the  sky  with  an  expression  of  hopeless 
21 


242 


THE    BLUE    EYES. 


misery  I  can  never  forget.  It  has  haunted  me 
all  day ;  and  the  very  intensity  with  which,  at 
the  moment,  I  tried  to  recall  the  likeness  to  my 
memory,  robbed  me  of  the  presence  of  mind  — 
or  instinct  rather  —  which  should  have  prompted 
me  to  question  the  poor  child.  But  I  had  little 
time  for  reflection ;  almost  at  the  instant,  a  ruf- 
fianly-looking man  came  forward,  and  seizing 
the  boy  with  the  authority  of  a  master,  began 
cuffing  him  with  his  fist,  as  he  half  drove,  half 
dragged  him  along.  Amid  the  storm  of  impre- 
cations which  accompanied  these  proceedings,  all 
I  could  understand  was,  that  the  child  had  lost, 
or  been  robbed  of,  a  penny,  with  which  he  had 
been  intrusted  to  pay  the  postage  of  a  letter. 
Strange,  Fanny,  is  it  not?  that  I  cannot  forget 
that  poor  boy  !  " 

CHAPTER    SECOND. 

Winter  had  passed  away;  a  long,  cold  win- 
ter :  yet  to  the  well  housed,  well  clothed,  well 
warmed,  well  fed  many,  a  season  of  social,  genial, 
or  studious  hours  profitably  passed,  and  pleasant 
to  remember.  In  a  well  curtained,  well  carpeted 
chamber,  with  the  cheerful  fire  acting  as  the 
magnet  of  the  room  —  and  the  book,  or  the  pen- 
cil, music's  softening  recreation,  and  the  highest 
and  most  inexhaustible  resource  of  all,  that  rapid 
and  suggestive  interchange  of  thought,  for  which 


THE    BLUE    EYES. 


243 


we  want  some  more  definite  term  than  "  conver 
sation"  —  it  matters  but  little  what  the  strife  of 
the  elements  maybe  without;  how  biting  the 
wind,  or  penetrating  the  rain,  or  death-dealing 
the  frost !  Far  differently  the  winter  passes  in 
the  haunts  of  penury,  or  even  in  the  abodes  of 
the  laboring  poor.  The  resources  which  are  just 
equal  to  meet  the  wants  of  summer,  sorely  fail 
in  the  hour  of  bitterer  trial,  when  physical  suffer- 
ing brings  its  inevitable  train  of  moral  degrada- 
tions ;  and  the  animal  instinct  of  self-preservation 
asserts  its  dominion  over  every  nobler  faculty. 

It  had  been  a  winter  of  great  misery  to  the 
very  poor ;  and  a  period  of  those  convulsions  in 
the  mercantile  world  which  spread  their  eddies 
in  many  widening  circles.  Walter  Bingham 
had  not  escaped  their  influence;  he  was  still 
without  employment,  and  poorer  than  in  the  au- 
tumn, inasmuch,  that  he  had  dipped  for  those 
months'  support  still  deeper  into  his  capital. 
But  a  heavier  sorrow  than  this  had  fallen  on  the 
young  couple.     Alas  !  the  little  crib  was  empty; 

the  pallor  of  death  had  displaced  the  roses  of 

health,  and  the  new  life,  so  full  of  promise  and 
freshness,  had  died  out  from  the  earth,  though 
so  many  of  the  old  and  feeble,  and  loveless  and 
wretched,  still  lingered  behind:  — one  of  the 
solemn  lessons,  with  which  each  day  is  rife,  that 
tell  of  the  vanity  of  human  expectations. 


244 


THE    BLUE    EYES. 


The  Binghams  had  quite  decided  on  emigra- 
tion, and  had  completed  nearly  every  preparation. 
Berths  were  even  secured  in  a  ship  which  would 
shortly  sail,  but  Walter  had  still  business  to  settle 
with  his  wily  cousin.  Though  what  the  calen- 
dar calls  spring,  it  was  a  chilly  evening ;  in  fact, 
much  such  weather  as,  belonging  to  opposite  sea- 
son'  strangely  enough,  sometimes  recalls  during 
one  he  other  to  mind  ;  and  so  like  was  it  in  its 
cha  :ter  to  that  day  on  which  we  first  intro- 
duD  Walter  Bingham  to  the  reader,  that  he 
had  een  more  than  once  irresistibly  reminded 
of  it  and  its  events.  He  had  called  on  his  cousin 
on  his  return  home,  hoping  finally  to  arrange  the 
matter  between  them,  in  which  there  was  a  dis- 
pute about  two  or  three  hundred  pounds.  They 
were  in  earnest  conference  in  a  parlor  fronting 
the  street,  and  had  drawn  near  the  window  to 
examine  some  memorandums  scarcely  otherwise 
to  be  distinguished  in  the  deepening  twilight. 
Suddenly  there  was  a  noise  in  the  street  —  a 
rabble  of  men  and  boys,  apparently  dragging 
along  some  juvenile  offender  —  and  then  a  halt 
immediately  before  the  house.  In  a  moment, 
Bingham  recognized  in  the  culprit  the  child  who 
had  interested  him  so  much  six  months  before ! 

To  rush  into  the  street,  and  to  rescue  the  boy 
from  the  rough  hands  which  grasped  him,  prom- 
ising to  listen  presently  to  any  accusations,  was 


THE    BLUE    EYES. 


245 


the  work  of  a  few  seconds ;  and  a  similar  act  of 
impulse  was  to  draw  him  into  Mr.  Shirley's 
dwelling.  Most  poorly  clad,  dirty,  ragged,  mea- 
gre, miserable  looking  to  the  last  degree,  the  boy 
still  retained  the  expression  which  had  touched 
so  deeply  in  the  heart  of  Walter  Bingham.  The 
blue  eyes,  gleaming  through  tears,  from  time  to 
time  looked  upwards  as  he  answered  Waher's 
questioning. 

"  How  came  you  into  this  trouble  ? "  he  asked. 

"  I  broke  a  window,"  said  the  boy. 

"Broke  a  window  —  on  purpose?"  pursued 
his  interrogator. 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  no  home  —  I  want  to  be  sent 
to  prison." 

"No  home  —  no  parents?"  continued  Bing- 
ham. 

"  I   never  had,"  sobbed   the  boy.     "  I   am  a 

workhouse  child.     I  was  brought  up  at  M 

workhouse." 

"  But  they  have  not  turned  you  adrift  into  the 
streets,  surely?" 

"  No  :  they  put  me  out  to  a  shoemaker." 

"  Then  why  are  you  homeless  ?" 

"  Because  I  sold  a  bit  of  leather  for  twopence, 
■which  I  thought  master  had  thrown  away  —  I 
am  sure  I  did"  —  and  here  the  boy  broke  into  a 
torrent  of  tears. 

"  Come,  tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  Bingham, 
21^ 


246  THE    BLUE    EYES. 

in  a  kind  voice,  suspecting  there  was  a  story  of 
oppression  and  temptation  to  hear. 

"  He  beat  me  for  losing  a  penny,  and  said  I 
stole  it  —  but  I  never  did,"  sobbed  the  poor  un- 
fortunate; "  and  then  —  and  then  —  they  called 
me  a  thief,  and  the  boys  laughed  at  me,  and 
asked  me  what  I  stole  —  as  —  as  —  I  never  had 
halfpence  for  play  or  for  cakes  —  and  yet  they 
would  not  believe  me  when  I  said  I  was  not  a 
thief,  and  so  —  and  so  —  I  took  the  bit  of  leather, 
and  I  never  had  twopence  before." 

"  And  what  did  you  do  with  the  money?" 

"  I  bought  nuts  for  the  boj's  in  the  court.  But 
they  sent  me  to  prison  for  a  thief,  and  when  I 
came  out  I  had  nowhere  to  go  —  master  would 
not  let  me  into  his  house  —  and  so  —  and  so  —  I 
broke  the  window  to  go  back  to  prison :  for  I 
won't  be  a  thief,  and  what  can  I  do  ?" 

What  can  I  do  ?  Oh,  question  so  difficult  for 
sages  and  legislators  to  answer ;  and  one  which 
can  never  be  satisfactorily  solved  till  charity 
walks  "more  bravely  abroad  in  the  world  —  with 
a  hand  ready  to  raise  up  the  fallen,  —  and  hope 
shines  as  God  meant  it  to  shine  —  a  light  to 
cheer  and  lead  forward  even  the  most  wretched! 
Absorbed  in  the  child's  history,  Bingham  had 
not  noticed  his  cousin ;  but  now  he  looked  up, 
and  was  almost  alarmed  to  see  that  he  had  sunk 
into  a  chair,  and  that  his  countenance  was  of  a 


THE    BLUE    EYES.  247 

deathlike  paleness.      Truth,  to  tell,  he  too  had 
started  at  the  expression  of  the  "  blue  eyes,"  and 

when  the  boy  mentioned  the  M workhouse, 

his  guilty  conscience  told  him  the  rest. 

Bingham  raised  his  hand  to  his  brow,  as  if  he 
would  sweep  back  a  host  of  newer  memories,  and 
recall,  in  all  their  vividness,  the  scenes  of  his 
boyhood. 

"Lucy  —  poor  Lucy!  —  is  it  so?"  he  mur- 
mured, appealing  to  his  cousin,  who,  with  the 
characteristic  cowardice  of  cruelty,  dragged  him 
into  an  adjoining  room,  and  besought  him  in  the 
most  abject  manner  to  keep  his  secret.  Mean, 
craven  souls  always  judge  the  nobler  ones  which 
they  are  unable  to  comprehend  by  their  own  low 
standard,  and  Shirley  was  full  of  dread  and  sus- 
picion that  his  cousin  would  use  his  newly  ac- 
quired knowledge  as  a  means  of  terror  and  a 
threat  over  him. 

Charles  Shirley  had  a  shrewish  wife,  with  a 
fortune  "  settled  on  herself!  " 

There  was  a  terrible  confession  wrung  from 
him  by  interrogations,  and  made  in  fear  and 
trembling. 

A  false  marriage,  an  awakening  to  shame, 
desertion,  and  maternity,  and  death  in  a  work- 
house ! 

"  Not  for  your  sake,  not  for  yours,"  exclaimed 
Bingham,  with  honest  indignation,  "but  for  the 


248  THE    BLUE    EYES. 

memory  of  that  suffering  girl,  but  for  the  pres- 
ence of  those  'blue  eyes'  which  watched  over 
me  in  the  hours  of  mortal  sickness,  I  take  the 
charge  of  your  nameless  child.  To  the  southern 
hemisphere,  away  from  the  land  of  his  birth,  I 
take  him  —  he  is  not  j^-ours  to  give." 

And  when  Fanny,  his  dear  Fanny,  she  whose 
heart  ever  beat  in  unison  with  his  own,  heard 
the  tale,  she  wreathed  her  arms  round  her  hus- 
band's neck  in  a  proud  and  approving  caress,  and 
looking  down  at  her  black  garments,  and  point- 
ing to  the  empty  crib,  she  murmured  —  "  To  be 
a  substitute,  at  least  a  consolation." 

And  the  three  are  at  this  hour  crossing  the 
blue  ocean !  May  fair  winds  speed  them  on 
their  way,  and  a  bright  sky  canopy  their  new 
home.  The  heart's  promptings  more  often  come 
straight  from  heaven  than  the  cool  calculations 
of  the  head ;  and  I  am  dreaming  a  beautiful 
dream,  of  childlike  affection,  and  unutterable 
gratitude  ;  of  an  approving  conscience,  and  of 
fortune's  gifts,  which  seem  profuse  to  them  of 
few  wants  and  simple  pleasures ! 


249 


"THE  WARM  YOUNG  HEAKT." 

Y    AUTHOR    OF    PROVERBIAL    PHILOSOPHY, 

A  BEAUTIFUL  face,  and  a  form  of  grace, 

Were  a  pleasant  sight  to  see  \ 
And  gold,  and  gems,  and  diadems, 

Right  excellent  they  be  : 
But  beauty  and  gold,  though  both  be  untold, 

Are  things  of  a  worldly  mart ; 
The  wealth  that  I  prize,  above  ingots  or  eyes, 

Is  a  heart,  —  a  warm  young  heart ! 

0  face  most  fair,  shall  thy  beauty  compare 
With  affection's  glowing  light  ? 

0  riches  and  pride,  how  pale  ye  beside 
Love's  wealth,  serene  and  bright! 

1  spurn  thee  away,  as  a  cold  thing  of  clay, 

Though  gilded  and  carved  thou  art. 
For  all  That  I  prize,  in  its  smiles  and  its  sighs, 
Is  a  heart  — a  warm  ^roung  heart ! 


250 


THE  HAPPY  PAMILY. 

ANONYMOUS. 

Happy  mother  !  happy  child  I 

Each  around  the  other  clinging, 
She  with  pensive  face  and  mild, 

He  his  blithest  carol  singing : 
See,  his  little  song  beguiles 
Another  of  his  mother's  smiles, 
While  her  fond  and  soft  caress 
Forms  his  dearest  happiness  ! 

Happy  mother  !  happy  child ! 

What  though  soon  that  gentle  boy 

Should  learn  to  sigh,  should  meet  with  sorrow! 
He  who  is  her  greatest  joy 

Then  from  her  sweet  peace  shall  borrow ! 
Or  think  we  of  the  coming  hour 
When  bo3diood  yields  to  manhood's  power; 
Then  shall  he  make  her  soul  rejoice. 
Truth  breathes  in  our  prophetic  voice ; 

Happy  mother  !  happy  child  ! 


TMIE       iPIAIPIPX    IFx^MILlTo 


251 


THE  LAW  OF   OPINION. 

A  TALE. 

BY     GEORGINA     C.     MUNRO. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  the  assizes  in  a  country 
touTi,  and  a  man  sat  on  the  wayside  a  few  miles 
distant  from  that  town,  his  chin  resting  on  both 
hands,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  gaze  fixed  on 
the  ground,  and  his  whole  air  betokening  the 
extreme  of  despondency  or  suUenness ;  perhaps 
of  both ;  for  though  he  was  young,  scarce  two 
and  twenty,  there  was  a  deep  gloom  on  his  brow, 
which  might  be  referred  to  either  feeling,  and  a 
lurid  gloom  was  in  the  downcast  eyes,  while  his 
cheeks  were  pale  and  sunken,  through  anguish 
of  mind,  not  want  or  illness.     His  entire  worldly 
possessions  were  contained  in  the  small  bundle 
lying  beside  him,  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief; 
truly  all  his   possessions,    for   he   had  neither 
good   character  nor  friends.     At  those  assizes 
just  terminating,  he  had  been  arraigned  for  mur- 
der—the murder  of  his  dearest  friend,  the  as- 
cribed motive  being  the  appropriation  of  a  trifling 
sum  belonging  to  the  deceased.     There  was  a 
strong  chain  of  circumstantial  evidence  against 
him,  but  a  connecting  link  was  wanting,  and  he 


252  THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 

was  found  "  Not  guilty  :"  a  Scottish  jury  would 
have  said  "Not  proven;"  but  no  such  middle 
course  being  allov/ed  in  England,  the  resuU  was 
an  acquittal.  But  what  an  acquittal !  No  hand 
was  extended  in  friendly  greeting;  no  voice 
welcomed  him  back  to  liberty;  no  eye  looked 
kindly  on  him.  He  was  restored  to  all  the  privi- 
leges of  a  free-born  Englishman ;  but  he  was  an 
outcast  from  the  society  of  his  countrymen.  The 
law  pronounced  him  innocent  ;  but  the  public 
voice  proclaimed  him  guilty,  and  renounced  his 
fellowship.  On  being  recognized  that  morning, 
he  had  been  dismissed  with  insult  from  the  mis- 
erable lodging  whither  he  had  betaken  himself 
the  previous  evening.  He  had  been  reviled, 
hooted,  and  pelted  beyond  the  outskirts  of  the 
town,  and  only  saved  from  personal  injury  by 
the  interference  of  the  officers  of  that  law  it  was 
assumed  he  had  offended;  and  his  spirit  was 
chafed  and  his  feelings  wounded  by  the  con- 
tumely with  which  he  had  been  treated. 

How  long  he  had  been  there  he  could  not  have 
told :  the  shadows  might  have  moved,  but  he 
marked  them  not  —  all  was  shadow  now  to  him; 
while  the  flight  of  time  was  unevidenced  by  any 
diminution  of  the  weariness  of  body  or  lassitude 
of  mind  which  had  bade  him  pause  there  to  rest. 
There  were  footsteps  along  the  road,  and  voices 
approaching,  but  he  did  not   look  up  ;    at  that 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 


253 


moment  he  seemed  not  to  care  who  the  passers 
by  might  be.     Suddenly  one  near  to  him  pro- 
nounced his  name  and  the  crime  for  which  he 
had  been  tried,  coupled  with  opprobrious  and  in- 
sulting epithets.     He  started  to  his  feet  with  his 
bundle  in  his   hand,   and  looked  wildly  round 
him.     Several  lads  were   gathered  in  a   semi- 
circle, and  one  of  their  number  having  just  pro- 
claimed his  identity  with  the  object  of  universal 
detestation,  they  were  gazing  on  him  with  looks 
of  mingled  aversion  and  curiosity.    "  Stand  back, 
all  of  you  ! "  exclaimed  the  unfortunate  man,  in  a 
threatening  tone,  indignant  at  being  stared  at  in 
that  manner,  like  a  wild  beast. 

They  retreated  a  few  yards  ;    then,  embold- 
ened by  distance  and  numbers,  began  to  taunt 
and  upbraid  him  with  the  death  of  his  friend, 
and  with  many  a   degrading  thought  and  evil 
passion  which  had  never  entered  his  heart  nor 
his  imagination,  until,  stung  to  madness  by  their 
provocations,  he  raised  a  large  stone  which  lay 
at  his  feet,  though  more  with  the  intention  of 
dispersing  his  tormentors  than  of  injuring  any 
one  of  them.    A  shcut  of  defiance  from  the  young 
ruffians  strengthened  his  purpose,  and  already 
the  missile  was  poised  in  his  hand,  when  a  voice 
seemed  to  echo  that  hated  word  "murder,"  but 
in  warning,  in  his  ear;  then,  recalled  in  an  in- 
stant to  himself,  he  repulsed  the  temptation  of 


254 


THE    LAW    OF    OPIl<fION. 


revenge,  cast  the  stone  to  the  ground,  and  spring- 
ing over  the  hedge,  amidst  a  yell  of  exultation 
from  the  youthful  champions  of  justice,  bounded 
away  across  the  country,  over  fence  and  ditch 
and  field,  in  his  headlong  flight  towards  his 
home. 

Home  !  What  a  world  of  meaning  is  conveyed 
by  that  single  word !  What  does  it  not  imply 
of  hope  and  gladness,  of  sweetest  memories, 
strong  affections,  and  pure  and  stingless  pleas- 
ures? And  shunned  and  miserable  as  he  was, 
even  that  unhappy  being  had  a  home,  where 
dwelt  those  who  were  very  dear  unto  his  heart. 
But  how  might  they  receive  him  ?  The  doubt 
had  inflicted  greater  agony  on  his  spirit  than  the 
bitterest  taunts  of  his  most  savage  persecutors. 
It  was  dusk  when  he  entered  his  native  village, 
and  involuntarily  he  slunk  along  with  a  stealthy 
step,  lest  the  sound  of  his  foot  might  awaken 
animosity.  Many  weeks  had  elapsed  since  he 
was  there  last,  and  though  all  was  still  the  same, 
it  looked  different  to  him.  There  were  the  same 
cottages,  with  their  low  quaint  fences,  and  walls 
draperied  with  honeysuckle  and  roses  ;  but  as 
he  passed  they  seemed  to  frown  on  him  some- 
what of  the  abhorrence  with  which  the  once 
kindly  tenants  now  would  meet  him.  The  vil- 
lage church,  built  on  a  rising  ground,  was  soon 
observable,    looking    shadowy    and    spectre-like 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION.  255 

amid  the  gloom ;  and  he  remembered  his  child- 
ish awe,  in  j^ears  gone  by,  at  the  thought  that 
he  should  one  day  be  placed  beneath  the  green 
turf  which  girt  it  round  —  now  he  would  that  he 
had  been  laid  there  then.  There,  too,  was  the 
blacksmith's  shed,  where  he  had  so  often  loitered 
in  idle  hours  ;  some  work  still  detained  the  black- 
smith at  his  anvil,  and  it  was  surrounded  by 
loungers,  talking  eagerly  —  alas!  he  could  but 
too  well  guess  the  subject  of  their  conversation ! 
A  little  shop,  with  oranges,  eggs,  cakes,  bull's- 
eyes,  and  such  kinds  of  sweatmeats,  in  the  win- 
dow, stood  near :  it  was  his  mother's.  He  had 
not  seen  her  since  his  arrest,  and  he  knew  that 
she  had  been  very  ill  during  the  interval  —  ill 
through  distress  at  the  charge  brought  against 
him.  Long  ere  this  she  would  have  known  of 
his  release  :  would  she,  could  she,  too,  share  in 
the  general  aversion  he  had  excited  ? 

With  a  faltering  step  he  entered  beneath  the 
humble  roof — the  shop  was  empty,  and  he  passed 
onward  to  the  open  door,  which  led  into  the  inner 
room.  At  the  sound  of  his  footstep,  a  girl,  who 
had  sat  crouching  on  a  low  stool  beside  the  fire, 
rose  and  came  forward,  and  on  seeing  him,  flung 
herself  into  his  arms,  and  burst  into  tears.  She 
was  his  sister,  his  only  one,  and  they  had  been 
a  great  deal  to  each  other ;  yet,  as  he  kissed  her 
cheek,  he  almost  fancied  she  shrunk  from  the 


L 


2m 


THE    LAW    OF    OPl^aON. 


caress.  He  released  her  from  his  embrace,  and 
approached  his  mother,  who,  ghastly  pale,  and 
looking,  as  she  was,  heart-broken,  sat  motionless 
as  a  statue  in  the  ancient  high-backed  chair, 
which  his  grandmother  used  to  occupy  of  old. 
Her  countenance  was  so  rigid,  her  form  so  death- 
like, that  he  dared  not,  as  he  could  have  wished, 
fall  upon  her  neck,  but  he  kneh  down  at  her  feet, 
as  he  used  to  do  as  a  child,  when  she  would 
teach  him  those  prayers  he  had  too  frequently 
omitted  of  later  years.  The  poor  woman  laid  a 
hand  on  either  shoulder,  and  looked  into  his 
face.  "  Thank  God,  you  have  come  back  ! "  said 
she,  in  a  low  voice  —  "thank  God  that  you  are 
safe !  But,  oh  that  I  should  ever  have  hved  to 
see  this  day  ! " 

"Mother,  mother!"  said  the  wretched  man, 
hoarsely,  "I  am  innocent  —  lam  innocent  of 
shedding  blood,  as  when  I  lay  an  infant  in  your 
arms  !    Mother,  say  you  do  not  think  me  guilty !  " 

"  I  hope  you  are  not,  Richard,"  replied  the 
mother.  "  God  only  knows  how  earnestly  I 
hope  you  are  not." 

And  this  was  Richard  Drewatt's  welcome 
home,  after  all  his  sorrow,  his  sufferings,  and 
his  danger,  and  by  those  who  loved  him  better 
than  did  any  one  else  on  earth.  But  the  curse 
of  imputed  crime  was  upon  him ;  and  even  his 
nearest  and  dearest  could  not  feel  towards  him 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION.  257 

as  of  old.  They  were  kind  to  him,  however, 
and  strove  hard  that  he  should  perceive  no  differ- 
ence in  their  mode  of  treating  him  ;  though,  not- 
withstanding all  their  efforts,  scarcely  a  minute 
passed  without  some  involuntary  betrayal  of  the 
change.  For  some  days  he  remained  quiet, 
without  stirring  abroad  :  he  was,  indeed,  unfit 
for  looking  after  an3^thnig.  But  while  keeping 
still  as  death  in  the  little  room  over  the  shop,  the 
kindly-meant,  but  often  ill-judged,  remarks  of  the 
occasional  customers  —  from  whom  his  arrival 
was  attempted  to  be  concealed  —  reached  his 
ears,  telling  him  in  what  estimation  he  was  held 
by  former  friends. 

The  village  stood  within  two  miles  of  a  large 
town,  whither  he  at  length  proceeded  one  morn- 
ing in  quest  of  employment,  having  stolen  from 
his  mother's  dwelling  before  daybreak,  like  a 
thief  escaping  from  prison,  and  gained  the  open 
country  ere  any  of  the  neighbors  were  awake. 
Near  the  entrance  to  the  town  was  the  shop 
where  he  had  learned  and  wrought  at  his  trade 
of  cabinet-maker,  and  he  called  there  first,  not 
with  any  expectations  of  success ;  for  though  his 
former  master  had  given  him  a  good  character 
on  his  trial,  he  had  not  shown  him  any  kindness 
afterwards ;  but  Eichard  had  nerved  his  mind  to 
the  effort  to  stem  the  tide  of  persecution,  and 
assumed  that,  being  acquitted,  he  must  necessa- 
22^ 


258  THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 

rily  be  considered  innocent.  But  to  his  applica- 
tion, the  master  answered  coldly  that  his  place 
was  filled  up,  and  no  more  hands  were  at  pres- 
ent needed.  He  went  to  another,  and  yet 
another,  until  he  had  been  at  every  shop  of  the 
description  in  the  town,  but  with  equally  bad 
success  :  in  each  establishment  there  was  some 
one  that  knew  him,  and  his  application  was  cut 
short  at  once.  The  last  of  the  number  belonged 
to  the  former  foreman  of  his  old  master,  and  his 
refusal  of  employment,  though  as  decided,  was 
more  kindly  worded  than  most  others.  Drewatt 
turned  to  go  away,  and  yet  he  hesitated.  "  It  is 
this  unfortunate  story  against  me  prevents  your 
taking  me  on,"  said  he,  at  length.  "  Surely,  sir, 
you  cannot  believe  that  I  am  guilty  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  myself,"  was  the  reply,  "  but  I  am 
sorry  to  say  there  is  a  feeling  against  you,  and 
my  men  would  not  let  you  work  with  them." 

Sad,  and  sick  at  heart,  Richard  stole  back  to 
his  mother's  house  in  the  dim  twilight.  How 
different  it  was  in  former  times,  when  from  that 
very  town  which  now  rejected  his  proffered  labor, 
he  used  to  return  every  evening,  tired  perhaps 
with  his  work,  but  gay  and  happy,  and  to  a  home 
indeed  made  blessed  by  affection  and  innocent 
and  spontaneous  merriment.  Now  they  were 
forced  and  very  mournful  smiles  which  greeted 
him ;  and  he  had  scarcely  voice  enough  to  reveal 


THE    LAAV    OF    OPINION.  259 

his  disappointments,  expected  though  they  had 
been. 

On  the  following  morning  he  set  forth  again, 
on  a  similar  errand,  to  another  town,  about  twelve 
miles  distant  from  the  village.  But  the  same 
ill-fortune  still  attended  him  :  some  really  had 
no  vacancy  for  workmen,  some  looked  suspi- 
ciously at  him  —  f5r  his  description  had  gone 
the  round  of  all  the  papers  —  and  then  declined 
engaging  him.  One  person  there  was,  evidently 
inclined  to  give  him  work,  who  asked  his  name, 
looked  queer  on  hearing  it,  and  inquired  if  he 
had  not  been  till  lately  in  the  employ  of  Mr.  Dunn 
at  C.  Eichard  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and 
was  told  there  was  no  employment  for  him  there. 

Yet  more  dejected  than  before,  the  unfortunate 
man  retraced  his  steps,  resolving  without  further 
loss  of  time  to  quit  the  village  perhaps  forever, 
to  prosecute,  at  a  greater  distance  from  the  scene 
of  his  rebujEfs  and  insults,  his  search  of  an  oppor- 
tunity to  earn  his  subsistence  honestly,  by  the 
labor  of  his  hands.  His  immediate  removal  was 
indeed  requisite ;  for  the  fact  of  his  presence 
began  to  be  wdiispered  abroad,  and  people  were 
growing  chary  of  sending  their  children  to  the 
shop,  where  a  reputed  murderer  might  be  en- 
countered, and  were  not  over  ready  to  come 
themselves.  And  this  shop  being  now  the  wid- 
ow's sole  support,  loss  of  custom  wonld   be  too 


260  THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 

ruinous  to  be  lightly  hazarded.  Were  we  giving" 
the  rein  to  invention,  we  might  have  sought  to 
work  upon  the  reader's  feelings  by  depicting  such 
loss  of  custom  as  being  the  immediate  conse- 
quence of  the  general  feeling  against  Richard. 
But  we  are  relating  a  plain  unvarnished  tale ; 
and  in  this  instance  the  worthy  villagers  did  not 
thus  visit  the  presumed  misdeeds  of  the  son  upon 
his  unoffending  parent ;  though  the  school  which 
Kate  kept  formerly  had  inevitably  to  be  discon- 
tinued. 

It  was  night  when  Richard  reached  the  first 
straggling  houses  of  the  hamlet ;  yet  after  pass- 
ing them  he  sat  down  in  the  deeper  obscurity  at 
the  foot  of  a  ruined  wall,  for  his  heart  failed  him 
at  the  thought  of  meeting  those  at  home,  with 
the  tale  of  repeated  denials  he  had  to  tell.  He 
heard  a  footstep  coming  along,  and  shrunk  down 
to  the  level  of  a  large  stone  and  the  rank  weeds 
beside  it,  for  whose  vicinage  he  was  thankful ; 
for,  more  especially  in  his  present  irritated  and 
desponding  mood,  he  hated  the  very  idea  of  en- 
countering any  of  his  former  acquaintances. 
Presently  he  heard  a  lighter  though  slower  step 
approaching  from  the  opposite  direction  ;  and 
while  still  the  angle  of  the  wall  prevented  his 
seeing  this  second  person,  the  man,  who  was  by 
this  time  close  to  him,  called  out  —  "  Why,  who 
comes  here  ?  is  't  you,  Mary  ?  " 


THE    LAW    OF    OriNION.  261 

"No  — it's  me  —  Kate  Drewatt,"  replied  Rich- 
ard's sister  in  a  trembling  voice,  and  the  next 
instant  he  could  discover  her  form  amid  the  dim- 
ness. 

"  Oh  !  ar'  n't  you  almost  afraid  to  be  out  so 
late  ?  shall  I  go  home  with  you  ?  "  inquired,  with 
considerable  hesitation,  the  former  speaker,  whom 
Drewatt  recognized  as  one  he  had  often  consid- 
ered Kate's  most  favored  lover.  Poor  girl !  it 
was  in  those  bygone  days  when  she  had  several. 

"  No,  thank  you ;  I  can  go  home  by  myself," 
said  Kate,  in  a  prouder  tone. 

"  Why,  Kate,  you  must  n't  take  it  ill  of  me, 
that  —  that  —  "  began  the  youth.  "  I  mean  you 
mustn't  put  any  blame  on  me  because  that  —  " 

"  I  put  no  blame  on  any  one  for  anything," 
replied  Kate,  sadly.  "  But  you  need  n't  tell  me 
plainer  what  you  mean,  George  Rushwood,  for 
your  looks  and  your  behavior  have  spoken  plainly 
as  a  printed  book  already." 

"  But  what  I  mean,  Kate,  is  not  for  you  to  be 
going  to  think  I  did  n't  love  you,  because  I  can't 
now  wish  you  for  my  wife.  If  you  were  changed, 
Kate,  as  you  can  never  change  ;  if  you  were  ugly 
and  frightful,  instead  of  the  prettiest  girl  here- 
abouts, I  would  have  loved  you  all  the  same  —  I 
could  have  worked  for  you,  and  for  your  mother, 
if  she  was  poor  and  old,  and  had  a  dozen  help- 
less children,  I'd  have  worked  for  them  all.    But 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 


no,  Kate  —  though  it  goes  nigh  to  break  my 
heart  to  say  so  —  I  can't  have  the  folks  say  that 
my  wife  is  Dick  Drewatt's  sister." 

"  You  might  have  waited  till  she  was  offered 
to  you  before  you  refused  her,"  replied  Kate  with 
a  little  feminine  spirit,  though  even  then  she 
could  hardly  speak  for  weeping.  "  But  though 
Kate  Drewatt  is  very,  very  unhappy,  she  is  not 
yet  so  miserable  as  to  wish  the  love  or  the  pity 
of  any  man,  much  less  any  man  who  could  de- 
spise her." 

During  their  short  dialogue  the  poor  girl  had 
moved  past  Rushwood,  and  she  now  hurried 
away,  without  leaving  time  for  a  reply.  Her 
sometime  suitor,  and  even  now  lover,  gazed  after 
her  for  a  minute.  "No  —  I  can't  do  it!"  he 
exclaimed  at  length,  striking  his  stick  loudly  on 
the  earth  :  "  I  can't !  Father  and  mother  would 
come  out  of  their  quiet  graves  to  curse  me,  if  I 
did  it ! "  and  with  a  bitter  malediction  on  his  un- 
suspected listener,  Eushwood  went  his  way. 

Can  any  one  guess  that  listener's  feelings  ? 
They  cannot  imagine  them  more  painful  than 
they  were.  He  knew  before  that  he  had  been 
the  means  of  heaping  fearful  misery  on  his  fam- 
ily;  but  until  then  he  had  not  seen  its  full  ex- 
tent. But  self  will  have  its  due  on  all  occasions  : 
even  amid  his  aggravated  distress  on  their  ac- 
count, it  cost  him  a  bitter  pang  to  know  that 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION.  263 

Kate  had  not  made  a  single  attempt  to  vindicate 
him.  He  could  not,  therefore,  marvel  at  the 
imperfectly  concealed  loathing  with  which  she 
endured  his  parting  embrace,  even  while  mur- 
muring best  and  sincerest  wishes  for  his  happi- 
ness ;  his  mother,  too,  as  she  blessed  him, 
breathed  a  prayer  rather  for  his  reformation  than 
his  preservation  from  evil  ways ;  and  he  left 
them  with  a  heavy  heart,  inwardly  resolving 
never  again  to  cast  the  blight  of  his  presence 
over  them. 

However,  fortune  seemed  disposed  to  smile 
more  kindly  on  him  in  the  distant  town,  which, 
after  many  days  of  weary  travelling,  he  reached 
at  last;  for  there  he  obtained  employment,  under 
a  feigned  name,  and  by  his  expertness  and  indus- 
try appeared  to  have  secured  a  fair  prospect  of 
its  continuance. 

One  day  there  came  a  person  on  business  to 
Dre watt's  employer,  whose  face  the  wanderer 
half  fancied  he  had  seen  before,  though,  as  the 
stranger  appeared  to  take  no  notice  of  him,  he 
thought  it  must  have  been  mere  fancy.  After 
that  day  it  occurred  to  him,  however,  that  his 
fellow-workmen  kept  more  aloof,  and  were  little 
disposed  to  enter  into  conversation  with  him,  and 
not  at  all  to  seek  his  companionship  —  a  circum- 
stance rendered  the  less  rem.arkable,  it  must  be 
owned,  by  his  being  in  general  silent,  moody, 


264  THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 

and  reserved ;  for,  strive  as  he  might  to  prevent 
it,  the  hard  usage  he  had  of  late  experienced  had 
wrought  such  change  in  his  demeanor.  When 
Saturday  night  came,  he  was  asked  whether  he 
had  ever  gone  by  the  name  of  Drewatt ;  he  could 
not  deny  it,  and  was  at  once  discharged  —  pen- 
niless, except  for  his  last  week's  wages,  since  he 
had  made  a  constant  practice  of  transmitting 
every  farthing  he  could  spare  to  his  mother, 
whose  declining  health  and  narrow  means  — 
narrowed  yet  more  through  Kate's  loss  of  her 
school  —  stood  in  much  need  of  such  assistance. 
Richard  judged  truly  that  after  this  discovery 
it  would  be  of  no  avail  to  seek  employment  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  on  the  impulse  of  the  mo- 
ment he  determined  on  taking  his  departure  in- 
stantly from  the  place  where  the  stigma  of  hatred 
and  disgrace  had  followed.  So  packing  up  his 
personals,  Vv'hich  had  not  much  increased  in  bulk 
during  the  interval,  he  set  out  that  very  night  to 
recommence  his  wanderings.  He  had  gone 
scarcely  half  a  mile  with  this  intent,  when  he 
perceived  a  horse  standing  by  the  roadside  rider- 
less. On  drawing  near  he  found  that  he  who 
should  have  been  the  rider  was  lying,  head 
downwards,  in  a  dry  and  shallow  ditch,  in  the 
heavy  sleep  of  intoxication,  with  one  foot  still  in 
the  stirrup,  and  his  life  at  the  horse's  mercy. 
But,  wiser  than  his   master,  the   animal  stood 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION.  265 

perfectly  quiet,  —  one  might  almost  fancy,  medi- 
tating on  the  fallen  state  of  man.  The  stranger 
appeared  in  danger  of  instant  suffocation  ;  there- 
fore Drewatt  hastily  extricated  his  foot,  dragged 
him  to  a  safer  position  on  the  grassy  bank,  and 
loosened  his  cravat.  It  then  occurred  to  him  to 
try  to  discover  some  clue  to  the  residence  of  his 
unwished-for  charge,  whom  he  did  not  much 
like  to  leave  alone  in  that  condition,  and  who 
was  to  all  appearance  a  farmer  well  to  do  in  the 
world.  On  examining  his  pockets  with  that 
view,  Drewatt  found  a  large  sum  in  gold,  and 
notes  to  evidently  a  greater  amount.  The  voice 
of  the  tempter  spoke  at  once  to  his  heart,  and 
met  a  fearful  echo  there.  Would  that  wealth 
were  his  !  for  wealth  it  would  be  to  him,  more 
than  he  could  hope  the  toil  of  his  whole  lifetime 
would  amass.  And  what  but  his  own  will  were 
required  to  make  it  his  ?  and  then  no  more  weary 
wanderings  in  search  of  work  —  no  more  depen- 
dence on  the  whim  of  his  employers  —  no  more 
depressing  fears  lest  the  breath  of  slander  might 
deprive  him  of  the  poor  man's  chief  earthly  bless- 
ing, leave  to  labor  for  his  livelihood.  Here  was 
enough  to  convey  him  to  a  distant  country,  where 
none  ^could  recognize  him  :  here  was  enough  to 
establish  him  well  in  business  for  himself  in  that 
strange  land  ;  and  to  enable  him  to  provide  suf- 
ficiently for  his  mother's  wants.  And  she  need 
23 


266 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 


never  know  how  lie  had  gained  that  money  which 
supported  her  old  age  —  nor  need  the  world  ;  and 
even  should  suspicion  of  the  robbery  be  cast  upon 
him,  it  could  not  follow  him  in  his  flight ;  he 
could  guard  against  being  tracked ;  and  as  for 
that  name,  which  must  be  left  as  a  useless  en- 
cumbrance behind  him,  it  could  not  be  consigned 
to  greater  ignominy  than  already  covered  it,  or 
be  exposed  to  deeper  execration  than  had  been 
already  poured  upon  it. 

He  began  to  remove  the  talismanic  treasure 
from  the  sleeper's  pocket;  but,  at  its  touch,  bet- 
ter thoughts  came  over  him  :  the  thought  of  that 
world  hereafter,  where  each  should  be  judged  by 
his  deeds  and  feelings,  and  not  according  to  the 
opinions  of  his  fellow-men ;  the  thought  also  of 
this  world,  where  he  would  thus  be  lending  a 
darker  coloring  to  the  calumnies  of  evil  wishers, 
overwhelming  his  unhappy  relatives  with  yet 
more  poignant  anguish.  No,  he  would  not  do 
it !  the  temptation  had  passed  by,  and  the  gold 
seemed  to  scorch  his  hand  as  if  it  had  been  burn- 
ing coals,  and  the  notes  felt  like  living  scorpions, 
as  he  quickly  replaced  them,  eager  to  get  the 
now  hated  things  out  of  his  sight.  His  next 
consideration  was,  what  to  do  with  the  senseless, 
brutalized  being  who  had  steeped  his  senses  to 
complete  submersion  in  his  inebriating  draughts. 
There  was  no  house  in  view,  and  he  could  not 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION.  267 

remove  him  without  assistance,  while  at  the  same 
time  Drewatt  feared  to  leave  him,  for  at  that 
moment  the  dread  lay  painfully  heavy  on  his 
mind,  that  should  the  farmer  be  robbed,  it  would 
be  ascribed  to  him.  He  sat  there  for  some  time  : 
at  length  a  person  came  along  the  road,  whose 
aid  he  claimed.  They  shook  the  sleeper  until 
he  was  as  wide  awake  as  his  stupefied  facuhies 
would  permit,  then  placed  him  on  his  horse,  and, 
supporting  him  on  either  side,  conveyed  him  to 
the  town,  where,  in  the  first  respectable  inn  they 
came  to,  he  was  left  to  finish  his  sleep,  his  prop- 
erty being  first  counted  over  in  the  presence  of 
several  persons,  and  consigned  to  the  safe  keep- 
ing of  mine  host.  Then,  with  a  well  pleased 
conscience,  and  the  satisfaction  of  having  done 
his  duty,  Drewatt  sought  a  lodging  for  the  night, 
within  the  precincts  of  the  town  which,  but  a  few 
hours  before,  he  thought  he  had  left  forever. 

On  the  following  day  he  was,  to  his  inexpres- 
sible amazement,  taken  into  custody  on  suspicion 
of  having  robbed  the  very  man  who  was  so  much 
indebted  to  his  kindness.  It  appeared  that  at  a 
cattle  market,  held  on  Friday,  the  farmer  had 
effected  sales  to  a  great  extent,  for  which  he  had 
been  paid  in  gold  and  notes  ;  of  the  latter  he  had 
marked  down  the  numbers,  and  now  asserted 
that  one,  for  five  pounds,  was  missing.  On  the 
Monday  Drewatt  was  examined,  he  was  proved 


268  THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 

to  have  been  alone  with  the  complainant,  after 
which  period  there  was  no  opportunity^  for  com- 
mission of  the  theft.  His  previous  bad  character, 
which  now  came  forward,  likewise  went  against 
him,  and  he  was  remanded  until  further  evidence 
could  be  procured.  And  this  was  the  reward  of 
all  Richard's  good  resolves  and  withstandings  of 
temptation !  Would  this  story,  also,  reach  the 
viHage,  to  furnish  food  for  ill-natured  comments, 
and  carry  renewed  sorrow  to  that  dwelling  which 
misfortune  had  already  made  its  own.  He  did 
not  doubt  it:  indeed,  he  was  in  that  frame  of 
mind  not  much  to  doubt  that  the  note  would  be 
discovered  in  such  position,  and  other  circum- 
stances transpire,  so  as  to  perhaps  convict  him. 
"It  is  as  well  to  do  evil  as  good,"  he  thought; 
for  he  thought,  too,  that  had  he  stolen  the  money, 
he  should  not  have  waited  for  detection. 

We  will  not  do  more  than  allude  to  the  whirl- 
wind of  varied  passions  which  convulsed  Drew- 
att's  mind  during  the  interval,  until,  looking 
indeed  like  a  very  culprit,  he  was  again  brought 
up  for  examination.  But  there  an  unexpected 
witness  presented  himself —  the  landlord  of  the 
public  house  where  the  farmer  had  passed  the 
Friday  night,  and  staid  drinking  in  honor  of  his 
good  fortune  nearly  all  Saturday,  and  he  pro- 
duced the  note  in  question,  with  which  his  cus- 
tomer had  paid  his  bill.    The  state  of  intoxication 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION.  269 

m  which  the  farmer  was  at  the  time  prevented 
his  recollecting  the  circumstance;  and  he  was 
severely  reprimanded  by  the  magistrate  for  his 
recklessness  in  thus  preferring  a  charge  against 
an  innocent  man,  when  a  more  careful  computa- 
tion of  the  gold  in  his  possession  would  have 
proved  his  property  in  a  state  of  security  which 
he  had  not  deserved.  Perhaps  the  magistrate's 
animadversions  drove  the  idea  out  of  his  mind  ; 
but  at  all  events,  Drewatt's  accuser  walked  away 
without  offering  any  recompense  to  the  man  who 
had  in  all  probability  preserved  his  life.  Drewatt 
was  told  he  might  bring  an  action  for  false  im- 
prisonment, with  every  certainty  of  damages: 
but  he  would  try  nothing  of  the  kind ;  he  was 
sick  of  the  law  — sick  of  himself — sick  of  the 
world  altogether  ;  nor  was  such  feeling  much 
diminished  by  discovering  subsequently  that  the 
general  impression  was  that  he  had  meditated 
the  robbery,  but  that  the  approach  of  another 
person  had  compelled  a  change  of  purpose. 
What  else  could  such  an  evil-minded  man  have 
^neant  to  do  ? 

A  fortnight  after  this,  pale,  emaciated,  and 
enfeebled,  Drewatt  passed  out  of  the  townii.  He 
had  been  ill,  very  ill  indeed,  since  his  discharge, 
and  all  his  money  and  some  of  his  clothes  were 
gone,  one  shilling  alone  remained  for  his  ex- 
penses, and  he  felt  that  soon  he  must  beg,  or 
23=^ 


270  THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 

starve,  —  or  steal!      Walking  was  toilsome  to 
him  then;  but  on  he  went,  slowly  indeed,  and 
with  frequent  rests,  yet  he  had  gone  a  good  many 
miles,  when,  an  hour  or  two  after  midday,  he 
sat  down  to  make  his  humble  meal.     There  was 
an  alehouse  by  the  roadside,  and  a  little  beer 
might  have  recruited  his  strength ;  but  he  had 
no  money  to  waste,  and  passing  it  by  some  dis- 
tance, he  drew  forth  the  slice  of  bread  and  bit  of 
cheese  he  had  brought  with  him  for  his  dinner. 
While  engaged  in  eating  it,  Richard  perceived 
something  lying  a  little  way  further  on,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road,  and  when  he  had  finished, 
he  went  over  and  picked  it  up.     It  was  a  green 
silk  purse,  —  though  not  exactly  what  every  one 
would  have  called  a  purse,  being  simply  a  little 
silk  bag,  tied  round  carefully  with  the  cord  which 
formed  its  string.     Such  as  it  was,  however,  it 
was  not  empty,  and  Richard's  heart  leaped  for 
joy  as  he  felt  that  it  contained  two  large  coins 
besides  smaller  ones.     Here  was  fortune  !  here 
was  enough,  in  all  probability,  to  keep  him  some 
time  longer  from  want,  perhaps  until  he  should 
be  able  to  meet  once  more  with  employment. 
Yet,  though  the  sight  of  its  contents  would  have 
been  pleasing  to  his  eyes,  he  put  the  purse  into 
his  pocket  without  loosening  the  string ;  not  from 
any  doubt  as  to  the  appropriation  of  the  money, 
but  he  felt  some  misgivings  about  meddling  too 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION.  271 

much  with  it  in  a  hurry,  lest  this  apparent  good 
fortune  should  be  the  source  of  fresh  trouble. 
He  went  on  with  a  lighter  heart  and  a  firmer 
step,  most  thankful  for  the  timely  assistance  thus 
thrown  in  his  way.  After  a  time,  he  began  to 
wonder  how  the  money  had  been  dropt,  and  who 
had  lost  it.  "  Would  it  had  been  a  farmer,"  he 
thought,  "  were  it  ten  thousand  times  as  much, 
and  sunk  in  the  deep  dark  ocean,  and  of  no 
benefit  to  me  ! "  Such  are  the  feelings  which 
the  misconduct  of  one  man  too  frequently  excites 
towards  his  class.  But  the  aspect  of  the  little 
bag  forbade  the  idea ;  it  had  belonged,  most 
probably,  to  some  one  in  very  humble  circum- 
stances, perhaps  was  the  sole  treasure  of  one 
whom  its  loss  would  leave  poor  and  wretched  as 
himself — and  he  knew  how  hard  such  misfor- 
tune was  to  bear.  This  thought  poisoned  his 
delight,  and  as  he  proceeded  he  employed  him- 
self in  further  conjectures  as  to  the  loser. 

At  length  he  saw  a  young  girl  coming  along, 
looking  from  side  to  side  of  the  road,  and  exam- 
ining every  tuft  of  grass  with  the  unmistakable 
air  of  one  who  has  missed  some  article  which 
should  have  been  forthcoming.  "  Have  you  lost 
anything  ? "  he  inquired. 

"  I  have,  indeed  ! "  she  replied,  turning  on  him 
a  look  of  deep  concern. 

"  Was  it  a  purse  ? " 


272 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 


"  Oh  yes  !  —  a  little  green  silk  bag,  with  two 
half-crowns,  a  shilling,  and  three  sixpences!" 
exclaimed  the  girl  eagerly,  evidently  in  a  hurry 
to  identify  it. 

It  was  immediately  restored  to  her,  and  the 
most  heartfelt  gratitude  was  poured  forth  with 
that  natural  eloquence  which  has  its  source  in 
feeling.  But  almost  as  eloquent,  and  yet  more 
welcome  to  Drewatt,  was  the  language  of  those 
jright  and  truth-fraught  eyes,  as  also  the  expres- 
sion of  that  youthful  and  ingenuous  countenance, 
whose  beauty  they  enhanced.  Drewatt  had  seen 
many  pretty  girls,  but  never  one  who  seemed 
half  so  lovely  in  his  eyes  —  the  voice  of  kindness 
and  friendship  sounds  doubly  sweet  to  ears  un- 
accustomed to  receive  it,  and  hers  being  that 
voice  might  have  some  influence  on  his  feelings. 
She  observed  how  ill  he  looked,  advised  him  to 
rest,  and  insisted  on  his  accepting  the  best  share 
of  some  fine  plums  she  carried  in  a  basket.  And 
very  pleasant  and  refreshing  they  were  to  Drew- 
att's  weariness,  though  yet  more  refreshing  were 
the  kind  words  and  fearless  demeanor  of  the 
girl,  as,  seated  near  him  on  the  bank,  she  eat  her 
own  division  of  the  fruit.  Had  she  but  known 
who  was  her  companion,  what  difference  might 
it  not  have  occasioned  in  her  conduct !  Drewatt 
did  not  try  the  experiment,  but  after  the  fruit 
was  finished,  they  walked   on   a  little   way  to« 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION.  273 

getlier,  when  he  assisted  her  over  a  stile,  and 
she  departed  in  her  ignorance  ;  though  the  whole 
of  the  story  of  her  own  life  had  passed  into  his 
possession  ;  and  he  knew  that  to  increase,  instead 
of  being  a  burthen  on  the  scanty  resources  of  an 
infirm  father,  she  had,  as  soon  as  her  younger 
sister  was  old  enough  to  supply  her  place  in  the 
house,  procured  a  situation  as  needlewoman,  in 
a  city  a  considerable  distance  away,  whither  she 
was  now  proceeding ;  her  entire  fund  for  travel- 
ling expenses  consisting  in  the  little  treasure  he 
had  restored  to  her,  to  make  the  most  of  which, 
having  sent  on  her  box,  she  was  performing  a 
portion  of  the  journey  on  foot. 

The  following  day  Drawatt  reached  another 
town,  and  recommenced  his  series  of  applications 
for  employment ;  but  all  in  vain  ;  trade  was  bad, 
and  many  of  their  regular  hands  being  out  of 
work,  no  one  would  engage  him  —  otherwise,  his 
sickly  look  might  alone  have  barred  success,  as 
it  did  in  his  endeavors  to  procure  any  other  kind 
of  work.  A  second  fit  of  illness  seized  him,  and 
when  its  violence  was  passed  by,  and  he  emerged 
from  the  wretched  dwelling  which  had  sheltered 
him,  he  was  utterly  destitute,  without  a  farthing, 
or  anything  in  the  world,  excepting  the  clothes 
he  wore.  He  had  no  resource  but  beggary,  and 
for  some  days  he  subsisted  on  the  fluctuating 
charity  of  the  towns-people.     Then  this  failed, 


274  THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 

also,  and  he  was  reduced  to  fearful  want.  Food 
had  not  passed  his  lips  for  more  than  twenty- 
four  hours,  and  he  stood  in  a  quiet  street,  near 
the  door  of  a  baker's  shop,  eying  its  contents  as 
they  alone  can  do  who  are  starving.  There  was 
no  one  in  the  shop  —  no  one  in  the  street ;  the 
bread,  for  whose  want  he  was  perishing,  stood 
before  him  in  tempting  piles ;  and  so  near  the 
door  !  nothing  could  be  easier  than  to  slip  in  and 
carry  off  one  little  loaf;  no  one  would  see  him, 
no  one  would  ever  know  it.  For  a  moment  he 
wavered,  and  advanced  a  step ;  then  he  drew 
back.  During  his  recent  illnesses  the  lessons 
which  his  mother  had  imprinted  on  his  mind  in 
childhood,  the  precepts  of  that  holy  volume  which 
she  had  made  her  guide  through  life,  and  the 
words  which  he  had  so  often  heard  the  clergy- 
man utter  in  the  pulpit,  had  all  wrought  power- 
fully upon  his  heart,  and  were  not  without  their 
fruits.  No,  he  would  not  yield  to  the  temptation ; 
a  few  days  sooner  or  later  it  might  be  that  he 
died,  but  he  would  not  prolong  his  existence  by 
dishonesty.  Resolutely,  though  with  trembling 
limbs,  he  walked  away,  and  turning  into  a  sort 
of  lane,  sat  down  beneath  a  wall.  The  worst 
seemed  to  have  come  at  last ;  he  had  begged  in 
vain,  he  would  not  steal,  nothing  remained  now 
but  to  starve.  Presently  a  man  came  down  the 
lane  whistling.      As  he  came  near  he   walked 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION.  275 

slower  and  looked  at  Drewatt.  The  latter  knew 
him  well ;  he  was  a  native  of  his  village,  who, 
having  been  imprisoned  for  theft,  had  on  his 
return  been  driven  away  by  the  general  insult 
and  avoidance  ;  and  he  had  been  one  to  show  his 
contempt  for  the  convicted  thief — how  his  heart 
smote  him  at  the  recollection  I  The  other  stop- 
ped and  gazed  on  him  for  a  moment,  ere  he  could 
fully  recognize  the  sadly  altered  face,  then  ex- 
claiming, "Is  this  you,  Dick  Drewatt?"  ex- 
tended his  hand,  which  was  clasped  most  eagerly. 
"  You  don't  avoid  me  noiv  .'"  observed  the  same 
speaker,  with  a  smile.  Drewatt  burst  into  tears  : 
bodily  weakness  and  conflicting  feelings  subdued 
him  to  such  unmanly  emotion.  "  Nay,  I  did  not 
mean  to  vex  you,"  continued  his  former  acquaint- 
ance, with  a  kindly  roughness,  at  the  same  time 
sitting  down  by  him.  "  I  should  be  the  last  man 
to  pick  holes  in  anybody's  jacket." 

"  But  I  am  not  guilty,"  said  Drewatt,  ear- 
nestly. 

"  So  we  all  say,"  replied  the  other,  with  some 
bitterness,  "  only  the  world  won't  believe  us.  So 
I  told  the  court ;  but  they  paid  no  respect  to  my 
assertions,  —  they  never  do.  It 's  a  good  job  that 
they  did  not  find  you  guilty,  and  hang  you  up 
hke  a  dog  that  was  not  worth  a  place  among  the 
living." 


276  THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 

"  It  might  have  been  as  ^Yell  as  giving  the  dog 
an  ill  name,"  remarked  Drewatt,  mournfully. 

u  ^y  —  so  that's  it?  Well,  tell  me  all  about 
it ;  I  am  not  so  bad  or  so  reckless  as  I  appear, 
and  am  earning  my  living  honestly.  But  first 
come  along,  and  let  us  have  a  pint  of  beer,  and  a 
slice  of  beef,  too  ;  you  don't  look  as  if  they  would 
hurt  you  :  fretting  and  fearing  won't  keep  a  man 
alive." 

After  that  welcome  meal,  it  was  a  blessing  to 
the  persecuted  man  to  pour  forth  Vv-ithout  reserve 
the  detail  of  his  sorrows,  his  disappointments, 
and  his  misfortunes,  to  one  who  would  not  scorn, 
or  mock,  or  shrink  from  him.  The  recital  was 
listened  to  with  an  air  of  sympathy  which  could 
not  be  assumed,  and  the  first  words  of  genuine 
consolation  and  encouragement,  from  one  who 
knew  his  actual  circumstances,  were  uttered  by 
the  man  whom  in  brighter  days  he  had  con- 
temned. In  return  for  Drewatt's  narrative,  his 
old  acquaintance,  Martin,  related  somewhat  of 
his  own  experience  of  the  world  since  he  had 
quitted  their  native  village  —  hov/  want  of  char- 
acter had  stood  in  his  way,  and  how,  recognized 
when  he  least  desired,  that  evil  had  been  eclipsed 
by  a  character  for  dishonesty  —  how  the  only 
classes  that  had  welcomed  him  were  those  which 
no  companionship  nor  example  could  corrupt, 
and  the  only  promising  way  of  gaining  his  live- 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION.  277 

lihood  was  by  disreputable  means.  He  told  how 
easy  he  found  it  to  sink,  how  difficult  to  rise, 
how  hard  to  extricate  himself  from  the  moral 
quicksands  ready  to  engulf  him ;  how  he  had 
striven,  and  how  constantly  the  sincerity  of  his 
efforts  had  been  discredited.  But  the  love  of 
evil  had  not  been  in  his  heart ;  and  resolutely 
disentangling  himself  from  its  temptations,  he 
had  set  forward  on  the  more  stony  path.  Desti- 
tute of  a  trade,  having  been  the  factotum  of  the 
hamlet's  only  shop,  he  had  at  first  earned  his 
subsistence  as  a  bricklayer's  laborer ;  but  the 
work  was  hard  and  the  wages  were  small,  and 
having  some  inkling  of  the  craft  of  basket-maker, 
he  had  attempted  it  with  sufficient  success  to 
induce  him  to  stick  to  it  altogether. 

"  It  makes  a  fair  enough  living,  one  week  with 
another,"  he  concluded,  "and  making  a  little 
allowance  for  disagreeable  thoughts,  I  am  as 
happy  as  possible.  You  met  me  in  a  very  merry 
humor  to-day,  for  I  've  sold  all  my  stock,  and 
that 's  always  a  piece  of  good  fortune  to  rejoice 
at.  And  now  you  must  come  w^th  me;  my  little 
room  will  hold  us  both,  and  when  we  get  richer 
we  shall  have  a  better  lodging." 

"  But  how  am  I,  at  least,  to  get  richer  ? "  asked 
Drewatt  sadly.  "  I  'm  not  strong  enough  for  a 
bricklayer's  laborer,  and  could  not  even  make  a 
basket." 

24 


278 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 


"  But  you  '11  soon  be  strong  enough  to  be  a  capi- 
tal workman,  as  you  know  you  are  by  rights," 
said  Martin  cheerfully ;  "  and  then  you  can 
make  something  more  to  the  purpose  than  a  bas- 
ket. I  once  heard  of  a  man  who  made  a  very 
large  fortune,  and  he  began  by  putting  a  common 
wooden  box  outside  his  door.  Don't  you  think 
a  table  or  a  chair  might  do  as  well  ?  So,  cheer 
up,  Dick,  my  boy,  we  '11  be  well  to  do  in  the 
world  some  day  !  Only  get  rid  of  that  unlucky 
name  of  yours,  which  would  be  enough  to  con- 
demn a  saint.  We  must  christen  you  over 
again;  what  shall  it  be?  nothing  out  of  the 
common  way.  Ah,  Joseph  Richards  will  do, 
and  not  seem  so  strange  to  you  either.  So  now 
come  home  with  me,  and  a  good  sleep  will  soon 
set  you  all  to  rights." 

A  few  days,  with  food  and  rest,  and  the  cheer- 
ful companionship  of  Martin,  did  wonders  in  re- 
cruiting Richard's  shattered  health  ;  and  as  soon 
as  he  was  capable,  he  put  his  friend's  plan  in 
execution.  A  few  articles,  of  the  best  construc- 
tion which  the  materials  Martin  could  afford  to 
buy  and  the  tools  he  could  borrow  or  buy  per- 
mitted, invited,  not  without  success,  the  purchase 
of  the  passenger ;  and  as  they  were  converted 
into  money,  others  of  superior  description  filled 
their  place ;  until  at  the  year's  end  the  two 
friends  were  enabled  to  hire  a  shop,  a  very  hum- 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION.  279 

ble  one  truly,  but  still  a  place  where  the  articles 
produced  by  their  joint  industry  might  be  ex- 
posed for  sale  to  better  advantage,  and  in  greater 
quantity,  than  before.  As  we  have  already  inti- 
mated, Richard  was  a  very  superior  workman  ; 
and  as  Martin  also  displayed  no  small  ingenuity 
and  taste  in  the  fabrication  of  his  lighter  wares, 
their  competition  with  establishments  of  longer 
standing  and  higher  pretensions  gradually  in- 
creased in  success,  and  their  receipts  in  value, 
the  greater  portion  of  which  their  steady  and 
frugal  habits  enabled  them  to  employ  in  the  im- 
provement of  their  business,  so  that  in  three  or 
four  3^ears  more  they  were  sufficiently  prosperous 
to  take  a  large  shop  in  one  of  the  best  streets  in 
the  town.  Here  might  be  seen  through  one 
window  a  crowd  of  highly  finished  and  fashion- 
able furniture,  while  the  other  displayed  Martin's 
baskets,  and  a  hundred  other  elegant  trifles  for 
use  or  ornament,  which  the  partners  had  deemed 
it  advisable  to  add  to  their  stock  in  trade. 

At  this  time,  likewise,  their  household  received 
an  addition  in  the  person  of  one  whom  Richard 
had  little  expected  ever  to  welcome  to  his  home. 
But  though  worldly  affairs  had  prospered,  all 
else  had  not  gone  so  happily  with  him  in  the  in- 
terval, and  he  had  grieved  deeply  to  hear  of  his 
mother's  death,  which  his  own  evil  name  had 
hastened.     And  she  had  gone  down  to  the  grave, 


280  THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 

though  blessing  him,  still  mourning  over  his  pre- 
sumed delinquencies,  and  in  that  thought  there 
was  bitterness  unspeakable.  Poor  Kate,  thus 
left  alone  in  the  village,  with  none  to  love  her, 
none  to  whom  she  could  cling  for  support  and 
comfort  in  her  desolation,  had  yet  at  first  declined 
her  brother's  request  to  join  him.  But  when  she 
came  to  seek  the  means  of  providing  for  her  own 
subsistence,  the  fact  of  Richard's  relationship 
paral^'zed  her  efforts.  It  had  been  her  wish  to 
procure  a  place,  no  matter  as  what,  anything  for 
which  she  was  fit,  no  matter  with  rich  or  poor, 
so  it  was  with  somebody  respectable.  But  though 
not  so  plainly  intimated,  the  truth  was  clear 
enough  to  her  comprehension,  no  one  would 
have  her  brother's  sister  in  their  house  ;  and,  in 
the  end,  that  brother's  entreaties  and  arguments 
prevailed,  and  Kate  took  up  her  abode  beneath 
his  roof.  Here  then  she  found  again,  and  through 
him,  that  respect  in  the  world's  eyes,  of  which 
he  had  been  the  means  of  depriving  her.  Taught 
somewhat,  also,  by  her  own  slight  experience,  of 
the  hardships  which  had  so  nearly  crushed  Rich- 
ard forever,  what  he  must  have  suffered,  Kate 
felt  that  his  punishment  had  been  adequate 
almost  to  his  imputed  crime  ;  and  recognizing  in 
his  struggles  to  regain  his  lost  position,  and  in 
the  uniform  exemplary  conduct  and  probity 
which  had  secured  the  good-will  and  opinion  of 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION.  281 

his  fellow-townsmen,  the  unfeigned  desire  of 
well-doing,  she  found  esteem  and  approbation 
mingling  once  more  with  the  affection  which  had 
clung  to  him  through  all  his  darkest  hours.  She 
no  longer  shrunk  from  him  now,  but  strove  to 
make  the  past  forgotten  in  the  present —  perhaps 
there  were  times  when  she  even  deemed  that 
past  might  have  been  misinterpreted,  and  that 
public  opinion  had  condemned  him  wrongfully. 
However,  the  expression  of  her  sentiments  was 
little  called  for,  as  the  days  gone  by  were  but 
rarely  spoken  of  in  that  house  ;  there  was  to  all 
much  in  their  events  to  which  they  would  not 
that  the  very  walls  should  listen,  and  they  were 
usually  allowed  to  rest  in  silence  well  nigh  as 
deep  as  though  they  never  had  existed. 

The  same  care  and  frugality  as  of  old  still 
characterized  the  household,  to  an  extent  beyond 
what  circumstances  might  appear  to  call  for; 
but  not  merely  did  its  members  feel  little  dispo- 
sition for  amusement  or  luxury,  but  not  knowing 
on  how  precarious  a  tenure  their  present  pros- 
perity might  be  held,  all  were  anxious  to  place 
themselves  above  the  danger  of  that  helpless 
penury  to  which  they  had  seen  that  general 
aversion  could  so  easily  reduce  them.  Thus  a 
dentist  occupied  the  best  rooms  ;  and  Kate,  with 
Martin's  assistance,  attended  the  shop,  while 
Richard,  glad  to  escape  the   necessity  of  often 


282  THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 

entering  it,  industriously  pursued  his  occupation, 
in  which  he  was  now  able  to  employ  two  or 
three  men  and  apprentices.  Perhaps  he  might 
have  hoped  that,  thrown  so  much  together  as 
they  were,  a  kinder  sentiment  than  friendship 
would  grow  up  between  his  sister  and  Martin, 
thinking  that  a  marriage  between  those  who 
knew  so  much  about  each  other's  circumstances 
that  time  could  scarcely  reveal  anything  to  their 
disparagement,  would  be,  as  matters  stood,  the 
best  thing  that  could  occur.  However,  there 
seemed  little  probability  of  such  an  event ;  on  the 
contrary,  Kate  Richards,  as  she  now  was  named, 
soon  attracted  the  admiration  of  a  respectable 
young  tradesman,  considerably  to  the  embarrass- 
ment and  vexation  of  her  brother,  who  foresaw 
nothing  but  evil  arising  out  of  this  attachment, 
however  it  might  end ;  since,  whatever  might 
prove  Kate's  decision,  it  was  evident  that  the 
young  man  was  not  in  himself  disagreeable  to 
her. 

One  day  Richard  had  been  called  into  the 
shop  to  receive  directions  about  some  furniture 
which  was  to  be  made  to  order,  and  he  was  still 
loitering  when  three  persons  entered.  The  first 
glance  recognized  the  pretty  owner  of  the  little 
green  silk  bag,  and  though  he  did  not  make  him- 
self known,  he  could  not  think  of  retiring.  She 
was  accompanied  by  a  younger  female,  and  a 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION.  283 

person  who  evidently  either  was,  or  soon  would 
be,  the  husband  of  one  of  them,  since  it  was  very 
obvious  that  they  were  selecting  furniture  for 
their  best  rooms,  and  also  that  it  was  the  first 
time  of  furnishing  at  all.  From  her  evincing 
most  interest  in  the  matter,  Richard  —  somewhat 
oddly  —  at  once  set  down  his  acquaintance  of  an 
hour  as  the  bride  then  or  to  be.  And  yet  the 
idea  vexed  him,  though  he  felt  that  there  was  no 
just  reason  for  its  doing  so ;  for  what  could  it  be 
to  him  ?  At  length  the  bright  eyes  of  his  way- 
side friend  were  turned  on  him ;  she  half  started, 
and  in  a  moment  looked  again  —  he  could  not 
appear  unconscious,  and  she  exclaimed  with  the 
same  lively  frankness  which  had  marked  her 
demeanor  of  old,  "  Surely,  sir,  I  've  seen  you  be- 
fore ?  Was  it  not  you  that  once  gave  me  the 
purse  I  had  lost  ? " 

This  recognition  met  a  cordial  response,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  the  whole  party  were  talking 
as  though  they  had  known  each  other  for  months. 
And  in  a  little  while  Richard  had  learned  by 
what  chance  he  had  again  encountered  Mary 
Hope,  for  in  her  lot  also  there  had  been  changes. 
Her  father  was  dead,  and  her  sister  being  about 
to  make  an  exceedingly  good  match,  by  marry- 
ing a  tradesman  just  set  up  for  himself  in  that 
very  town,  they  had  persuaded  Mary  to  give  up 
the  situation  which  she  still  held,  and  come  to 


284  THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 

liv^e  with  them  for  altogether.  And  so  she  was 
neither  married  nor  to  be  married;  yet,  again, 
what  should  that  be  to  him  ?  Did  he  not  feel 
that  a  viewless  barrier  divided  him  and  his  from 
the  rest  of  the  world  ?  Had  he  not  regarded  with 
pain  the  possibility  of  an  attachment  between 
Kate  and  one  otherwise  well  suited  to  her  ?  and 
if  such  considerations  weighed  in  her  case,  should 
they  not  weigh  a  hundred  times  more  heavily  in 
his  own  ?  Alas !  the  prudence  and  foresight 
which  had  before  been  watchful,  slumbered  now 
that  his  own  feelings  required  their  utmost  vigi- 
lance. Brought  in  contact  with  the  only  woman 
whose  face  had  ever  lingered  in  his  memory  as 
a  fair  thing  to  be  treasured,  he  yielded  to  the 
fascination,  thoughtlessly  seeking  her  presence, 
and  cultivating  the  willing  friendship  of  her  rela- 
tives, until,  ere  he  had  once  reflected  on  conse- 
quences, he  was  so  deeply  attached,  that  it  would 
indeed  have  needed  a  powerful  effort  to  break 
the  charm  which  bound  him.  But  no  such  effort 
did  he  make  ;  hope  whispered  sweetly,  and  he 
listened  but  too  willing  to  be  persuaded,  as  she 
argued  the  improbability  of  misfortune  again 
assailing  him,  or  evil  report  once  more  casting 
its  shadow  over  his  path,  and  blighting  the  hap- 
piness of  those  allied  to  him ;  and  set  forth  the 
folly  of  throwing  aside  the  proffered  blessings  of 
his  lot,  through  dread  of  mere  unlikely  possibili- 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION.  285 

ties.  A  scene  seemed  spread  before  his  eyes  of 
cloudless  joy  and  felicity  —  of  his  sister  and  him- 
self tasting  that  happiness  of  which  they  had 
once  thought  to  have  taken  leave  forever  —  uni- 
ted to  those  they  loved,  and  enjoying  the  gifts  of 
fortune,  and  the  respect  and  friendship  of  their 
acquaintance.  He  could  not  turn  from  the  en- 
chanting vision,  he  would  not  repel  it ;  but  re- 
signed himself  to  its  contemplation,  to  the  almost 
total  forgetfulness  of  the  thunder-cloud  which 
might  burst  over  him  when  least  expected, 
destroying  all  his  brilliant  hopes,  and  bidding 
Mary  and  his  sister's  lover  upbraid  and  scorn 
both  him  and  Kate. 

Thus  matters  went  on;  Richard  heeded  not 
that  Kate  was  on  the  very  point  of  uniting  her- 
self to  one  who  knew  not  her  father's  name,  still 
less  suspected  her  brother's  character ;  he  heeded 
not  that  he  had  himself  all  but  asked  Mary  Hope 
to  be  his  bride.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
fearlessness  ;  to  be  happy,  and  tremble  not  at 
shadows.  He  was  in  this  mood  one  day  walk- 
ing with  Martin,  who  had  not  a  little  contributed 
to  his  satisfied  frame  of  mind,  when  a  stage-coach 
passed  to  its  place  of  stopping,  but  a  little  way 
off.  Eichard  at  once  turned  deadly  pale.  "  I 
am  lost ! "  he  said.  "  A  man  on  that  coach  has 
recognized  me,  and  I  know  well  what  will  fol- 
low." 


286 


THE    LAW    OF    OriNION. 


"  But  are  you  certain?"  asked  his  friend. 

"  Ay,  certain  enough.  I  saw  he  recollected 
me  as  well  as  I  did  him.  He  was  a  fellow- 
apprentice  of  mine,  and  one  of  the  witnesses 
whose  evidence,  though  true,  went  so  unfortu- 
nately against  me.  We  were  friends  of  old,  and 
he  spoke  kindly  of  me  on  the  trial ;  but  that  is 
nothing;  I  have  learned  the  extent  of  such  friend- 
ship, and  know  I  shall  be  ruined.  Fool  that  I 
was,  to  think  it  would  be  otherwise  !  If  I  had 
not  been  a  fool  indeed,  what  misery  might  not 
have  been  spared  me  ! " 

"  Then  let  us  hurry  home,"  said  Martin.  "  By 
keeping  in-doors  a  day  or  two,  he  may  never 
find  you  out." 

"  It  is  too  late,"  replied  Richard,  glancing 
round,  and  there  sure  enough  was  his  old  friend 
hastening  after  them,  though  to  his  surprise  with 
outstretched  hand,  and  friendly  air.  His  greet- 
ing, too,  was  friendly,  and  betokened  much  pleas- 
ure at  meeting  Richard  so  obviously  improved 
in  circumstances. 

It  was  impossible  to  avoid  asking  Berry  to  ac- 
company them  home,  and,  in  fact,  Richard  felt 
as  though  it  would  be  in  vain  to  struggle  against 
the  inevitable  ruin  now  closing  round  him.  On 
their  way,  Berry  addressed  Drewatt  by  that  now 
unwonted  name.  "  That  name  is  unknown 
here,"  said  he,  sadly,  "  to  all  except  this  friend 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION.  2S7 

who  is  now  with  me.  "Whatever  you  may  do 
afterwards,  do  not  call  me  by  it  to-day  I " 

Berry  understood  his  meaning  instantly,  and 
answered  rather  to  it  than  to  his  words.  "  Do 
not  fear  me,  Dick,  I  never  will  betray  you ;  I 
know  what  you  have  suffered.  I,  for  one,  be- 
lieve you  innocent,  and  am  delighted  to  find,  as 
must  be  the  case  if  this  place  is  yours,  that  all 
this  knocking  about  has  done  you  no  harm  in 
the  end." 

Richard  led  him  into  the  shop  without  reply- 
ing, for  though  this  declaration  had  for  the  time 
reassured  him,  he  remembered  but  too  bitterly  all 
that  persecution  had  already  cost  him.  After  a 
few  hours  of  equally  friendly  communion,  Berry 
left  them,  and  Richard  knew  that  his  secret  still 
was  safe,  that  his  identity  with  a  person  whom 
he  had  heard  mentioned  even  by  them  was  yet 
unsuspected  by  his  fellow-townsmen.  Bat  the 
satisfaction  this  gave  him  was  of  but  short  dura- 
tion. He  had  been  rudely  awakened  from  his 
dream,  and  his  eyes  would  not  reclose,  but  re- 
mained open  to  the  precipice  on  whose  brink 
both  Katherine  and  himself  were  standing.  The 
slightest  breath  might  dash  them  down,  and  what 
right  had  they  to  drag  with  them  others  who 
were  unconscious  of  their  danger.  Kate  also 
was  aroused  from  the  pleasant  visions  she  had 
indulged  in ;  but  that  he  knew  not,  nor  dared  he 


288  THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 

at  that  moment  disturb  her  tranquillity  with  these 
considerations  he  had  himself  so  long  forgotten. 
It  was  his  own  conduct,  with  respect  to  poor 
Mary  Hope,  which  most  forcibly  struck  on  his 
conscience,  and  called  forth  his  remorseful  feel- 
ing. Had  he  not,  heedless  of  the  misery  it  might 
bring  upon  her,  striven  to  win  her  affection,  and 
of  late  thought  he  had  succeeded  ?  Lovely,  ami- 
able, and  gentle-hearted  as  she  was,  was  this  all 
to  which  his  love  for  her  had  tended  ?  Deeply 
guilty  as  he  felt  towards  her,  no  reparation  was 
possible ;  but  his  past  conduct  could  not  be  per- 
severed in,  and  he  at  once  made  up  his  mind  as 
to  his  course. 

On  the  evening  after  encountering  Berry,  he 
went  to  her  sister's  house  and  asked  Mary  to 
take  a  walk  with  him.  She  complied,  and  they 
gained  the  open  country  the  nearest  way,  almost 
in  silence,  Mary  catching  somewhat  of  the 
contagion  of  her  companion's  grave  demeanor, 
which  greatly  aroused  her  wonder.  At  length, 
when  they  were  far  from  the  noise  and  bustle  of 
the  town,  Richard  began  to  tell  her  of  his  attach- 
ment, of  how  truly  and  fervently  he  loved  her, 
and  how  that  feeling  had  grown  to  be  the  one 
thing  ruling  both  thought  and  action.  Earnestly, 
even  eloquently,  he  spoke,  for  his  heart  was  with 
his  words  ;  and  Mary  listened,  as  perhaps  few 
girls  have  listened  to  such  a  tale ;  for  though  it 


THE    LAW   OF    OPINION.  289 

was  pleasant  to  her  ears,  there  was  something-  in 
the  speaker's  manner  which  seemed  to  cast  the 
foreshadowing  of  coming  evil  over  her  spirit,  and 
all  other  emotions  were  mastered  by  a  nameless 
fear.  When  he  paused,  she  looked  up  and  would 
have  spoken,  but  he  prevented  her.  "  You  have 
yet  more  to  hear,"  he  said  ;  "  you  have  to  hear 
much,  Mary,  which  my  love  for  you  could  alone 
extenuate.  But  I  do  not  try  to  excuse  it;  I 
know  how  wrong  and  basely  I  have  acted,  and 
I  do  not  ask  for  pardon.  Let  us  sit  here,  and  in 
a  few  moments  you  shall  know  all." 

Pale  and  trembling,  Mary  sat  down  at  the  foot 
of  the  tree  he  indicated,  while  Richard  placed 
himself  near.  He  then  went  on  to  tell  how  a 
dark  cloud  had  settled  over  his  name,  and 
blighted  his  character,  and  how  it  had  injured 
those  who  were  then  dearest  to  him  ;  he  sketched 
his  fate  since  that  unfortunate  period,  and  finally 
he  told  her  his  name  and  the  crime  with  which 
he  had  been  charged,  and  with  which  her  mem- 
ory had  instantly  connected  it.  Mary's  face  was 
hidden  by  her  hands,  and  the  tears  flowed  fast 
through  her  fingers.  They  seemed  to  fall  like 
drops  of  molten  lead  upon  his  heart.  "  And 
now,  Mary,"  said  he,  rising,  "you  know  all 
You  know  why  I  dare  not  now  ask  you  to  share 
my  miserable  doom ;  but  you  cannot  know  how, 
madly  adoring  you,  I  was  induced  to  believe  my- 
25 


290  THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 

self  beyond  the  reach  of  danger,  and  therefore  in 
my  blindness  thought  to  win  you  for  my  wife. 
All  the  guilt  of  that  deception  I  now  feel  and 
confess ;  I  know  I  have  behaved  like  a  brute  and 
a  villain ;  and  yet  the  knowledge  that  you  will 
hate  and  despise  me  is  almost  punishment 
enough." 

"  Hear  me,  Richard  Drewatt,"  exclaimed  Mary, 
as  she  rose  also,  and  dashed  the  blinding  tear- 
drops from  her  eyes ;  "  for  once  I  will  call  you 
by  that  name,  to  tell  you  that,  from  all  I  have 
known  and  heard  of  you,  from  all  you  have  suf- 
fered and  withstood,  I  believe  you  to  be  as  guilt- 
less of  that  terrible  crime  as  I  am  myself.  1 
cannot  blame  your  conduct ;  I  know  not  if  it  was 
prudent ;  but  I  cannot  wish  you  had  done  other- 
wise. And  why  should  you  so  despond  ?  you 
have  not  done  evil,  and  good  is  sure  to  triumph 
at  the  last.  Why  should  you  be  certain  of  mis- 
fortune, when  it  may  never  reach  you?  Safe 
and  undisturbed,  as  you  have  lived  here  so  long, 
you  may  remain ;  every  year  added  to  your  age 
would  lessen  the  danger  of  discovery,  and  at  best 
or  at  worst,  come  weal  or  woe,  Mary  Hope  is 
willing  to  share  it  with  you,  if  you  will  let  her  ! " 

Richard's  first  emotion  was  one  of  rapturous 
delight  at  this  unexpected  declaration.  But 
with  reflection  came  wiser  and  m.ore  generous 
thoughts ;  he  remembered  that  with  her  feelings 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION, 


291 


so  wrought  upon,  she  was  incapable  of  judging 
calmly,  and  he  dared  not  accept  a  sacrifice  so 
rashly  offered.  He  told  her  this,  and  bade  her 
take  time  to  weigh  and  consider,  ere  she  pledged 
herself,  in  word  or  thought,  to  share  the  fortunes 
of  one  so  strangely  situated.  I\Iary  yielded  to 
his  arguments,  but  feared  no  change  in  her  re- 
solve, nor  that  the  appointed  space  of  a  week 
would  leave  her  less  inclined  to  repeat  the  pledge 
he  now  refused. 

On  his  return,  Kate's  eyes  told  Richard  she 
had  been  weeping  bhterly,  and  inquiry  elicited 
that  she  had  dismissed  the  lover,  in  whose  keep- 
ing her  heart  was  left.  And  this  too  was  his 
doing;  another  evil  of  his  lot.  He  was  deeply 
grieved,  and  besought  her  to  allow  him  to  speak 
to  the  young  man  in  explanation,  that  there 
might  at  least  be  no  ill-will  between  them.  But 
she  would  not  hear  of  it,  her  dread  of  contempt 
was  too  torturing ;  and  he  could  scarcely  win 
her  to  regard  with  patience  his  intention  of  doing 
so,  should  Mary  Hope's  feelings  remain  unakered 
by  reflection. 

The  week  was  nearly  ended  when  Richard 
received  a  communication  from  a  clerg^^man, 
requesting  him  to  visit  the  death-bed  of  one  who 
had  greatly  injured  him,  and  wished  his  forgive- 
ness ere  he  died.  The  clerg)^man  added,  that 
the  injury  he  would  find  in  part  repaired.     Ap- 


292  THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 

parently  intended  to  prevent  an  excess  of  pleas- 
ant emotion,  this  letter  raised  expectations 
Kichard  almost  feared  to  indulge  in ;  and  half 
doubting  whether,  after  all,  it  might  not  be 
merely  some  person  who  had  wronged  him  of  a 
few  pounds,  he  obeyed  the  summons  v/ithout 
delay.  Twenty  miles  were  soon  passed  over; 
but  he  arrived  barely  in  time  to  hear  the  self- 
accusing  confession  of  Berry,  who,  irritated  by  a 
sudden  quarrel,  had  committed  that  crime  for 
which  he  had  himself  been  tried ;  to  comfort  the 
parting  and  deeply  repentant  spirit  with  his  for- 
giveness, and  close  the  eyes  of  his  former  friend, 
who,  run  over  by  a  wagon,  thus  died  a  death 
of  lingering  agony.  The  full  and  complete  con- 
fession had,  however,  been  already  signed  and 
attested  ;  and  in  a  few  days  it  was  known  all 
over  England,  that  the  supposed  murderer  was 
innocent,  and  that  the  actual  criminal  no  longer 
lived. 

That  very  evening  saw  Drewatt  enter  the 
house  of  Mary's  sister.  The  true-hearted  girl 
met  him  with  the  frank  smile  and  ready  wel- 
come which  bespoke  a  changeless  heart.  "  I 
have  come  to  you,"  he  said  — 

"  To  find  me  still  the  same,"  she  added. 
"  There  is  no  change  in  me,  Richard  ;  nor  shall 
be  to  the  latest  hour  of  my  life." 

"  Nay,  it  was  not  that  brought  me  here,"  he 


THE    LAW    OF    OPINION.  293 

continued,  "  I  should  not  have  so  forestalled  the 
time.  But  were  I  alone  concerned,  your  trust 
and  truth  might  well  make  me  happier  than  the 
tidings  which  I  bring,  that  it  is  not  a  wretch 
shrinking  from  the  knowledge  of  his  fellow-crea- 
tures, but  one  who  can  fearlessly  hold  up  his 
head  in  the  company  of  honest  men,  who  now 
thanks  you  for  that  confidence." 

And  very  thankful  he  was  for  that  power; 
thankful  not  merely  that  the  stigma  under  which 
he  had  so  long  languished  was  removed ;  but 
even  more,  that  in  all  his  sufferings,  and  all  his 
trials,  he  had  never  yielded  to  the  temptation  of 
doing  aught  which  would  now  have  embittered 
his  happiness,  and  left  his  reputation  sullied  by 
his  own  evil  act,  when  the  shadow  of  misfortune 
had  been  withdrawn.  It  was  a  proud  day  for 
Richard  Drewatt,  when  his  own  rightful  name, 
untarnished  and  uncontemned,  was  placed  above 
his  door.  But  it  was  yet  a  prouder,  when  at  the 
altar  he  received  Mary's  hand,  and  gave  his  sis- 
ter's to  a  worthier  and  a  richer  lover  than  the 
one  of  whom  his  evil  name  had  robbed  her. 

"  I  have  much  to  thank  you  for,"  said  he  to 
Martin,  some  time  afterwards.  "  Our  common 
prosperity  is  entirely  owing  to  your  cheerfulness, 
perseverance,  and  foresight,  which  prevented  two 
innocent  men  sinking  beneath  the  blind  injustice 
of  the  world." 

25^ 


294  THE    LAW    OF    OPINION. 

"Why  do  you  not  say  innocent  manl"  de- 
manded his  partner  bluatly.  "  You  are  proved 
so,  but  I  am  not." 

"But  I  feel  you  are  as  innocent  as  myself; 
I  do  not  wait  for  proof,  nor  must  we  hope  for  it. 
Strangely  as  this  exculpation  has  come  to  me,  to 
you  it  is  almost  impossible." 

"  It  would  indeed  be  impossible ! "  said  Martin ; 
"  for  I  am  not  innocent.  No,  Drewatt,"  he  con- 
tinued with  some  bitterness,  "  I  was  guilty  of  all 
they  said ;  but  they  never  asked  by  what  temp- 
tation I  fell.  My  sister  was  starving,  and  was 
too  proud  to  beg,  and  I  had  sent  her  everything 
I  had.  Think,  Dick,  if  you  knew  that  Kate  was 
starving  !  However,  my  theft  did  not  save  her, 
and  she  died,  thank  God,  without  knowing  of  it ! 
But  for  all  that,  because  I  had  erred  once,  I  was 
not  worthless,  though  very  nearly  I  became  so. 
Ay,  Dick,  it  was  o?ice,  then  ;  but  injustice,  neces- 
sity, and  the  impossibility  of  earning  my  living 
honestly,  made  me  do  things  afterwards  which 
gladly,  very  gladly,  would  I  forget.  And  diffi- 
cult, indeed,  was  it  to  get  on  the  right  path,  after 
my  feet  had,  as  it  were,  become  glued  to  the 
wrong  one.  But  I  did  it  at  last,  and  you  could 
not  guess  how  many  temptations  I  had  to  resist 
and  conquer.  But  1  always  hated  myself  when 
I  did  evil,  though  people  made  me  do  it,  by  pre- 
tending that  I  loved  it.     Ah,  Kichard !  should 


THK    LAW   OF    OPINION.  295 

you  ever  have  a  child  to  educate,  teach  him  not 
merely  not  to  condemn  too  rashly,  lest  he  over- 
whelm the  innocent  with  the  punishment  of  the 
guilty ;  but  teach  him,  also,  that  even  the  guilty 
may  often  be  as  deserving  of  his  pity  as  his  cen- 
sure ;  tell  him  that  misfortune  is  the  parent  of 
more  crimes  than  is  a  wicked  heart;  tell  him 
that  even  the  fallen  should  retain  some  claim  to 
the  forbearance  of  a  fallen  race  ;  and  bid  him,  at 
least,  leave  the  way  to  reformation  open,  and 
drive  not  the  unhappy  wretch  from  evil  to  worse, 
and,  worst  of  all,  to  the  fellowship  and  example 
of  those  who  are  ever  ready  to  seize  on  fresh 
pupils,  and  become  tutors  in  crime." 


296 


STANZAS. 

ANONYMOUS. 

Where  is  the  gay  melodious  voice, 

O  where  the  mirthful  tone, 
That  bade  my  kindred  soul  rejoice. 

In  hours  forever  gone  ? 
Forever  gone  !  —  ay,  —  with  that  name 

A  thousand  memories  throng, — 
The  gentle  look,  the  soothing  word, 

The  silvery  laugh  and  song! 

The  lofty  hall,  and  trellised  bower,  - 

Where  waved  the  stately  plume, 
And  brightly  glanced  the  midnight  gem, 

And  flowers  breathed  rich  perfume,  — 
They  flash  o'er  memory's  darkened  eye. 

Like  lightnings  through  a  storm, 
And  with  them  starts  to  claim  a  sigh 

Each  well-known  friendly  form. 

No  soft  lamp  pours  its  silvery  ray 

Through  yon  proud  chamber's  gloom, — 

All  silent  is  the  mouldering  way 
Where  censers  breathed  perfume ; 


-J, 


STANZAS.  297 

But  stiil  resound  the  lark's  sweet  notes 

Amid  these  scenes  so  fair, 
And  still  on  morning's  wing  she  floats 

To  woo  the  fragrant  air ! 

Though  cold  be  beauty's  crimson  cheek, 

And  dim  her  laughing  brow. 
And  her  blue  eye  no  more  bespeak 

A  mind  as  pure  as  snow,  — 
Yet  still  the  rose  blooms  wild  around, 

The  queen  of  Eastern  flowers, — 
And  still  the  clashing  waves  resound 

Beside  the  forest  bowers  ! 

But  hushed  is  music's  mirthful  voice, 

And  silent  is  each  tone, 
That  bade  my  kindred  soul  rejoice 

In  hours  forever  gone  !  — 
And  nature's  sights  are  nothing  now  — 

A  leaf  or  breath  of  air  — 
Unless,  departed  friends  !  with  you 

Their  glory  I  can  share. 


298 


AUTUMN  FLOWERS. 

BY     MISS     ELIZA     A.     STARR. 

The  wild  asters  and  the  golden-rod, 

In  their  beauty  and  their  prime, 
With  the  sunlight  on  their  mingling  leaves, 

In  the  bright  September  time ; 
In  copse,  in  glen,  by  the  wood-paths  green, 

And  in  every  lonely  place, 
The  asters  bloom,  and  the  golden-rod, 

Like  a  smile  on  nature's  face. 

When  the  ripened  corn  is  gathering  in, 

And  the  days  are  warm  and  bright  — 
When  the  orchard  casts  its  mellow  fruit. 

In  the  mild  autumnal  light  — 
When  the  maple  tops  and  the  sumach  leaves 

Are  flushed  with  a  crimson  stain  — 
The  asters  still,  and  the  golden-rod, 

Stand  fresh  on  meadow  and  plain. 

When  the  shivering  leaves  drop  sear  and  dry 

To  the  chill  brown  earth  to  rest, 
And  the  summer  flowers,  with  pale,  meek  brow; 

Lie  dead  on  its  desolate  breast  — 
That  saddest  time  in  the  long,  bright  year. 

When  the  harvest  fields  are  bare, 


AUTUJIN    FLOWERS.  299 

The  asters  wild  and  the  golden-rod 
In  the  sunshine  cold  are  there. 

The  autumn  wind  and  the  autumn  rain  — 

But  they  nod  and  nod  the  while  — 
And  when  the  wind  and  the  rain  are  past, 

Look  forth  with  a  quiet  smile, 
From  copse,  and  glen,  and  wood-paths  drear, 

And  the  cold,  damp  leaves  among, 
With  a  golden  crest  and  star-bright  eye. 

To  welcome  a  smiling  sun. 

The  aster  wild  and  the  golden-rod, — 

The  last  of  a  gentle  race. 
That  budded  and  bloomed,  then  passed  away 

To  a  lonely  resting  place  — 
That  budded  and  bloomed,  then  died, — yet  each 

Of  those  frail  and  lovely  flowers 
Its  meek  destiny  of  love  wrought  out 

In  the  joyous  summer  hours. 

And  they,  the  last  of  a  sisterhood  — 

The  aster  and  golden-rod  — 
That  seem  in  the  chastened  autumn  light 

The  lingering  smile  of  God  ! 
O  bear  they  not  to  the  secret  springs 

Of  our  mournful  autumn  feeling, 
A  kindly  mission  of  hope  and  trust, 

Life's  sad  mysteries  revealing  ? 


300 


PLIGHTED  TROTH. 

BY     MRS.     ABD  Y. 

"Fathers  have  flinty  hearts,  —  no  tears  can 
move  them,"  said  a  dark-eyed,  sentimental-look- 
ing young  man,  after  relating  at  full  length  the 
terrible  fact  that  his  respected  sire  had  refused 
his  consent  to  his  immediate  marriage. 

"  And  uncles  are  much  worse,"  said  the  lady 
of  his  love ;  "  I  have  always  detested  uncles 
since  I  read  the  Children  in  the  Wood :  uncles 
and  guardians  are  individually  disagreeable,  and 
what  may  not  be  expected  when  they  are  united 
in  one  ? " 

"  Nothing  very  appalling,"  said  a  quiet,  lady- 
like person,  un  peu  passee^  who  sat  knitting  in 
the  back-ground;  "our  uncle  was  my  guardian 
as  well  as  yours,  Ella,  and  you  know  that, 
although  I  have  possessed  my  legal  liberty 
eleven  years,  I  have  voluntarily  continued  to 
make  his  house  my  home." 

"  But  you  have  no  heart,  and  never  had  one," 
said  Ella  Winfield;  "  and  my  uncle's  son  was  a 
school-boy  when  you  were  a  ward,  and  you  had 


PLIGHTED    TROTH. 


301 


no  fear  of  being  trepanned  into  a  marriag-e  with 
him." 

"  Neither  need  you,"  said  Cousin  Kate,  as  she 
was  generally  called.  "Edward  Arnold  has 
never  even  seen  you  ;  when  you  came  to  reside 
with  his  father  he  was  in  Portugal." 

"  And  is  it  not  very  odd  that  he  should  be 
returning  just  now  ? " 

"  Not  at  ail ;  he  has  terminated  the  business 
which  took  him  abroad,  and  of  course  his  father 
is  desirous  of  his  society  and  his  services  in 
England." 

"  Well,  it  appears  to  me  very  dreadful  to  marry 
the  son  of  one's  guardian." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Cousin  Kate,  "many 
wards  have  thought  differently.  Miss  Burney's 
Cecilia,  for  instance,  whom  I  doubt  not  you  will 
admit  as  far  higher  authority  than  any  damsel 
in  real  life,  married  the  son  of  her  guardian,  and 
gave  up  her  large  fortune  to  be  united  to  him.. 
But  you  must  not  be  alarmed,  Mr.  Medwin," 
she  continued,  turning  kindly  to  the  dark-eyed 
young  man,  "at  Ella's  visions  of  horror;  we 
will  guard  her  in  perfect  safety  for  you." 

"  Cruel  mockery  !  "  exclaimed  Medwin,  strik- 
ing his  forehead  after  the  most  approved  melo- 
dramatic fashion.  "  I  shall  fall  a  broken-hearted 
victim  to  the  tyranny  of  my  father." 

"Surely  I  misunderstand  you,"  said  Cousin 
26 


u 


802  PLIGHTED    TROTH. 

Kate  ;  "  I  had  imagined  that  your  father  and  Mr. 
Arnold  had  given  their  consent  to  your  union 
with  Ella,  provided  that  at  the  end  of  six  months 
each  party  continued  in  the  same  mind." 

"  But  how  are  we  to  exist  during  this  tedious 
age  of  separation?"  asked  Medwin :  "we  are 
prohibited  from  corresponding  with  each  other, 
and  we  are  not  to  be  suffered  even  to  consider 
ourselves  engaged." 

"  There  is  nothing  in  a  name,"  said  Cousin 
Kate;  "if  your  attachment  should  continue  to 
the  end  of  six  months,  it  will  be  of  little  impor- 
tance whether  your  relatives  recognized  your 
engagement  or  not." 

^'■If  it  should  continue,"  exclaimed  Medwin, 
reproachfully;  "how  unfeeling  a  doubt!  —  but 
you,  Ella,  do  me  more  justice." 

"  I  do,"  replied  Ella,  in  tears  ;  "  we  have 
plighted  our  troth  to  each  other;  and  this  must 
be  our  consolation  in  absence.  I  hope  I  shall 
live  to  receive  your  permitted  visit  at  my  uncle's 
house  this  day  six  months,  if  not  —  " 

"  I  shall  not  long  survive  you,"  said  Medwin. 

Cousin  Kate  continued  knitting  with  great 
apathy  during  the  whole  of  this  affectionate  col- 
loquy ;  but  Ella  did  not  resent  her  want  of  feel- 
ing. Cousin  Kate  was  thirty-two,  and  the  beauty 
of  seventeen  concluded  that  she  had  outlived  all 
sentiment  and  sensibility ;  besides,  she  retained 


PLIGHTED    TROTH. 


303 


no  girlish  airs  and  graces  ;  she  sported  half  caps, 
half-high  dresses,  and  numerous  other  appoint- 
ments, which  are  considered  characteristic  of  the 
"  half  young  lady ;"  she  had  passed,  two  years 
ago,  from  the  "  beautiful "  of  book-muslin  and 
roses  to  the  "  sublime"  of  black  satin  and  blond, 
and  her  young  friends  had  stamped  her  with  the 
dreaded  title  of  an  old  maid.  To  Cousin  Kate, 
however,  the  appellation  brought  no  terrors,  for 
every  one  knew  that  she  bore  it  from  choice. 
Men,  say  what  w^e  will  of  them,  have  generally 
tact  enough  to  find  out  the  recommendations  of 
such  women  as  decidedly  unite  sound  sense, 
sweetness  of  temper,  and  good  principle  ;  and 
Cousin  Kate,  with  an  indifferent  person,  a  small 
share  of  accomplishments,  and  a  property  of  a 
hundred  a-year,  had  refused  half  a  dozen  of  the 
best  matches  in  the  neighborhood. 

"  How  I  wish  you  had  a  more  sympathizing 
friend,"  whispered  Medwin  to  Ella  ;  "  but  I  have 
precisely  the  same  trial ;  Sutherland  does  noth- 
ing but  laugh  at  me." 

"  I  shall  always  value  Mr.  Sutherland,"  said 
Ella,  "because  he  introduced  you  to  our  ac- 
quaintance ;  but,  alas !  he  cannot  understand 
you.  I  have  no  doubt  he  speaks  on  the  subject 
exactly  like  Cousin  Kate,  and  thinks  the  conduct 
of  your  father  and  my  uncle  everything  that  is 
just  and  considerate." 


304  PLIGHTED    TROTH. 

"  Precisely  so,"  answered  Medwin,  with  a 
sigh.  "  When  people  advance  in  years,  they 
confound  all  distinctions  of  right  and  wrong,  and 
lose  all  sense  of  trouble  or  pleasure; — but 
would  we  exchange  our  feelings  for  theirs  ?  " 

"  Surely  not,"  said  Ella. 

"  I  would  not  change  the  miseries  of  love 
For  all  the  world  calls  happiness." 

Medwin  disdained  to  reply  to  Ella's  apt  quo- 
tation in  plain  prose,  and  forthwith  responded, — 

"Know'st  thou  two  hearts  by  love  subdued  — 
Ask  them  which  fate  they  covet  —  whether 
Health,  joy,  and  life  in  solitude. 
Or  sickness,  grief,  and  death  together." 

How  many  more  hackneyed  quotations  the 
lovers  might  have  perpetrated,  and  how  much 
more  original  nonsense  they  might  have  talked 
it  is  impossible  to  say,  had  not  Sutherland  at 
this  moment  entered  the  room. 

Sutherland  was  a  good-looking,  gentlemanly, 
middle-aged  man ;  he  had  been  slightly  ac- 
-^uainted,  in  London,  with  Medwin  and  his 
father,  and  when  he  met  with  the  former  at  a 
particularly  stupid  watering-place,  he  was  glad 
to  improve  his  knowledge  of  him,  and  also  to 
introduce  him  to  the  family  of  Mr.  xA.rnold,  with 
whom  he  had  been  intimate  for  many  years.  A 
dull  watering-place  is  the  most  favorable  locality 
in  the  world  for  losing  the  heart;  and   Suther- 


PLIGHTED    TROTH.  305 

land,  when  he  saw  the  many  enamored  pairs  on 
the  pier  and  cliffs,  could  not  help  recalling  the 
words  of  Rasselas ;  "  Many  were  in  love  with 
triflers  like  themselves,  and  many  fancied  that 
they  were  in  love,  when  in  truth  they  were  only 
idle ! "  He  felt  rather  annoyed,  however,  at 
Med  win's  palpable  devotion  to  Ella  Winfield, 
having  himself  been  the  cause  of  their  introduc- 
tion to  each  other,  and  he  was  much  relieved 
when  the  senior  Mr.  Medwin  came  down  to  join 
his  son,  held  a  conference  with  Mr.  Arnold,  and 
finally  came  to  the  conclusion  with  which  my 
readers  are  already  acquainted,  that  the  young 
people  were  to  undergo  six  months'  probation 
before  receiving  formal  permission  to  render  each 
other  happy  or  miserable  for  life. 

"  Medwin,  your  father  is  waiting  for  you  ;  all 
is  ready  for  your  departure,"  said  Sutherland. 
Ella  sobbed  bitterly,  and  Medwin  whispered  to 
her  — 

"  True  constancy  no  linie,  no  power,  can  move  ; 
He  that  hath  known  to  change  ne'er  knew  to  love." 

"  How  long  will  this  violent  attachment  last  ?  " 
whispered  Sutherland,  with  a  satirical  smile,  to 
Cousin  Kate  :  "  tell  me  — 


What  day  next  week  the  eternity  will  end 


7)5> 


And  Cousin  Kate,  finding  that  poetical  quota- 
tion was  the  order  of  the  day,  and  determined 
26=^ 


306  PLIGHTED    TROTH. 

not  to  be  outdone,  looked  up  from  her  knitting, 
and  made  the  Shaksperean  rejoinder  — 

"  Briefly  die  their  joys 
Who  place  them  on  the  truth  of  girls  and  boys !  " 

Mr.  Arnold  took  his  niece  a  short  round  of  the 
watering-places  before  returning  home  ;  he  was 
really  fond  of  her,  and  really  wished  to  have  her 
for  a  daughter-in-law :  perhaps  he  liked  her 
pretty  face,  perhaps  her  pretty  fortune,  perhaps 
the  ties  of  kindred  assisted  him  to  be  patient  with 
her  follies,  perhaps  he  detected  the  good  will  and 
kindness  of  heart  of  which  she  was  in  reality 
possessed,  beneath  the  outward  embroidery  of 
romance  and  affectation  ;  at  all  events,  he  wished 
to  restore  her  spirits,  and  reinstate  himself  in  her 
good  graces.  All,  however,  was  in  vain.  Ella 
went  to  Ramsgate,  and  fixed  herself  like  an  en- 
chanted lady  in  a  chair  on  the  beach,  till  she  was 
in  imminent  danger  of  being  carried  out  to  sea 
in  the  midst  of  a  tender  reverie.  At  Margate 
she  could  only  wonder  that  there  were  people  in 
the  world  with  hearts  sufficiently  easy,  and  minds 
sufficiently  disengaged,  to  take  pleasure  in  raf- 
fling for  work-boxes  and  tea-caddies,  and  listen- 
ing to  ballads  at  bathing-rooms.  At  Heme  Bay, 
she  felt  a  momentary  interest  in  going  to  look  at 
the  "  magic  car,"  associating  it  with  reminis- 
cences of  the  Arabian  Nights  Entertainments ; 


PLIGHTED    TROTH.  307 

but  the  sight  of  the  cumbrous  vehicle  thus  elabo- 
rately designated,  quickly  rectified  her  impres- 
sions, and  she  certainly  felt  relieved  when  a 
letter  from  home  summoned  her  uncle  to  return 
thither,  even  although  it  came  in  consequence  of 
the  sudden  arrival  of  her  much-dreaded  cousin. 
Mr.  Arnold  lived  about  twenty  miles  from  Lon- 
don ;  his  villa  and  grounds  appeared  all  space, 
bloom,  fragrance,  and  comfort,  after  the  confined 
lodging-house  and  scorching  shingles  of  th^  ma- 
rine desert  they  had  quitted,  and  Ella  could  not 
feel  quite  so  unhappy  as  she  had  promised  her- 
self to  be.  Her  cousin  w^as  a  handsome  and 
agreeable  young  man,  but  so  far  from  oppressing 
her  with  admiration,  he  was  quite  unheedful  of 
her,  and  directed  his  whole  attention  to  Cousin 
Kate  ;  he  could  not  mean  anything  by  it,  he 
could  not  really  be  in  love  wdth  a  woman  six 
years  older  than  himself,  who  had  been  winning 
hearts  while  he  was  playing  at  marbles  ;  but 
still  it  was  provoking  to  be  treated  as  a  child  and 
a  supernumerary. 

"  I  am  taking  my  first  lesson  of  neglect,"  she 
observed  w^ith  pique  to  Cousin  Kate,  ''  and  I  do 
not  find  the  study  agreeable." 

"  Rather  say,"  replied  that  lady,  "  that  you  are 
taking  your  first  lesson  on  the  folly  of  unjust 
suspicions ;  neither  my  uncle  nor  his  son,  you 


808  PLIGHTED    TROTH. 

must  allow,  show  any  symptoms  of  having  des- 
tined you  to  a  marriage  of  compulsion." 

Ella  next  addressed  her  uncle  :  "  1  am  afraid 
my  cousin  Edward  has  taken  a  decided  dislike 
to  me,"  she  said. 

"  Very  likely  he  has,"  replied  Mr.  Arnold, 
coolly ;  "  but  dislike  may  be  sooner  overcome 
than  indifference.  Take  heed,  Ella,  how  you 
cause  him  to  go  from  one  extreme  to  the  other." 

But  Ella  did  not  "take  heed;"  she  had  con- 
stantly flowers  to  be  tended,  pens  to  be  mended, 
pencils  to  be  cut,  silk  to  be  wound,  and  music  to 
be  copied,  in  all  of  which  she  craved  the  aid  of 
her  cousin  Edward  in  tones  so  winning  and  per- 
suasive, that  he  must  have  been  hard-hearted 
indeed  to  have  been  deaf  to  her  entreaties.  His 
dislike  was  overcome  ;  she  became  his  favorite 
companion,  and  Cousin  Kate,  rivalled,  but  not 
mortified,  quietly  betook  herself  again  to  her 
books  and  her  knitting. 

Medwin  returned  with  his  father  to  London  :  it 
appeared  a  dreary  prison-house  to  him,  and  the 
garden  of  Bedford  Square  had  never  seemed  so 
insufferably  dingy  and  dusty;  he  filled  a  quire 
of  paper  with  love-fraught  verses,  and  played 
none  but  the  most  doleful  ditties  on  his  flute. 
His  sister  complained  that  he  had  become  a  dull 
and  dispirited  companion,  and  protested  that  she 


PLIGHTED    TROTH.  309 

felt  quite  an  aversion  to  Ella  Winfield  for  having 
altered  him  so  much  for  the  worse. 

"  You  shall  soon  see  my  school-friend,  Ara- 
minta  Staples,"  she  said  to  him,  on  the  third 
week  after  his  return;  "  papa  has  allowed  me  to 
invite  her  to  stay  with  me  ;  I  dare  say  you  will 
forget  your  watering-place  goddess  in  half  an 
hour  after  your  introduction  to  her." 

Piqued  by  this  prediction,  Medwin  resolved  to 
dislike  Araminta  Staples  very  much,  picturing 
her  to  himself  as  an  inveterate  school  girl,  with 
red  elbows,  a  passion  for  thick  bread  and  butter, 
and  an  unremitting  giggle.  Miss  Staples,  how- 
ever, proved  to  be  a  handsome,  pleasing,  and 
unaffected  girl,  and  her  style  of  beauty  was  much 
more  accordant  with  Medwin's  real  taste  than 
that  of  Ella  Winfield  ;  she  was  an  animated, 
sparkling  brunette,  with  jetty  ringlets  and  a 
brilliant  color,  and  Medwin  felt  disposed  to  say 
wnth  Lord  Byron  — 

"  Who  for  paler  dames  would  seek  ? 
How  poor  their  forms  appear,  how  languid,  wan,  and  weak! '» 

Medwin's  father  also  gave  the  decided  preference 
to  the  claims  of  Miss  Staples  over  those  of  Miss 
Winfield;  her  fortune  was  rather  better;  Ella 
had  seven  thousand  pounds,  while  Araminta,  as 
the  old  gentleman  facetiously  observed,  could 
"stretch  an  octave !"  — besides,  her  lively,  easy 


310  PLIGHTED    TROTH. 

manners  were  very  agreeable  to  him :  she  had, 
as  he  emphatically  declared,  "  no  nonsense  about 
her,"  a  phrase  of  which  I  profess  myself  utterly 
incapable  of  understanding  the  meaning,  but 
which  I  conclude  means  a  great  deal,  from  the 
spirit  and  energy  with  which  elderly  gentlemen 
are  wont  to  pronounce  this  mysterious  panegyric 
on  their  favorites.  Araminta,  too,  could  "  strike 
an  octave  "  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  son  as  well 
as  of  the  father ;  not  that  she  was  more  musical 
than  Ella,  —  in  fact  she  was  much  less  so,  —  but 
Ella  had  a  fine  voice,  and  thought  her  time  lost 
m  playing  anything  but  an  accompaniment  to  her 
own  singing.  Med  win  played  the  flute  very 
indifferently,  and  could  not  venture  to  destroy 
Ella's  sweet  and  scientific  singing  by  his  per- 
formance ;  while  Araminta,  who  did  not  sing  at 
all,  and  whose  playing  was  confined  to  waltzes 
and  quadrilles,  was  perfectly  satisfied  to  sit  at 
the  piano  for  hours,  while  Medwin  mounted 
guard  by  her  side  with  his  flute  in  his  hand, 
accompanying  her  in  all  the  easy  passages,  and 
indulging  himself  with  a  gratuitous  "  rest"  when 
a  difficult  one  happened  to  occur.  Araminta 
was  also  very  fond  of  poetry  ;  Medwin  looked 
over  his  quire  of  paper  to  find  some  effusions 
worthy  of  her  attention.  He  gav^e  the  preference 
to  some  stanzas  headed,  "  To  her  who  will  un- 
derstand them ;"  but  he  had  extolled  blue  eyes 


PLIGHTED    TROTH.  311 

and  auburn  locks  in  the  third  and  fourth  lines  ; 
he  could  not  expunge  them,  but  he  could  alter 
the  description  to  dark  eyes  and  raven  locks,  and 
he  forthwith  did  so.  The  verses  were  favorably 
received  :  Miss  Staples  was  asked  to  prolong  her 
visit,  and  consented  to  do  so  ;  the  members  of 
the  family  circle  were  perfectly  cheerful  and  con- 
tented with  each  other,  and  the  garden  of  Bed- 
ford Square,  enlivened  by  the  companionship  of 
the  "  dark-eyed  maid,"  appeared  to  Medwin  a 
most  exquisite  promenade  in  comparison  with 
the  rough  shingles  and  barren  rocks  character- 
izing the  scene  of  his  plighted  troth. 

Six  months  had  exactly  elapsed  since  the  sep- 
aration of  Medwin  and  Ella.  Medwin,  accom- 
panied by  his  friend  Sutherland,  was  travelling 
down  by  the  railroad  to  the  residence  of  Ella's 
uncle ;  no  other  person  entered  the  carriage 
which  they  had  selected,  and  they  conversed  in 
perfect  freedom. 

"  This  railroad  pace  is  delightful  for  lovers," 
said  Sutherland,  glancing  rather  mischievously 
at  the  woe-begone  countenance  of  Medwin. 

"  Delightful  for  true,  but  not  for  truant  lovers," 
responded  Medwin,  with  a  deep  sigh.  "  After 
all,  I  think  I  had  better  have  written  to  Ella." 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  said  Sutherland ;  "  you 
promised  to  be  at  Mr.  Arnold's  house  on  this 


312  PLIGHTED    TROTH. 

day,  and  because  you  have  broken  your  promise 
in  a  great  matter,  there  is  no  need  that  you 
should  break  it  in  a  small  one." 

"  But  what  a  confession  I  have  to  make  ! "  said 
Medwin  ;  "  who  could  have  predicted  it  ? " 

"  /  did  from  the  very  first,"  said  Sutherland. 

"  It  amazes  me,  Sutherland,"  said  Medwin, 
"  how  you  contrive  to  keep  clear  of  these  scrapes; 
my  father  tells  me  that  several  ladies  have  lost 
their  hearts  to  you." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  answered  Sutherland  ;  "  but  I 
have  not  lost  my  heart  to  several  ladies  ;  and 
this  circumstance  may  account  for  my  freedom 
from  those  embarrassments  of  the  affections 
which  you  denominate  '  scrapes,'  " 

Medwin  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes.  "  Sup- 
pose Ella  should  attempt  her  life,"  he  said  ;  "  she 
has  told  me  that  there  is  a  deep  fish-pond  in  the 
grounds  of  her  uncle.  " 

"  Is  there  ?  "  remarked  Sutherland,  quietly ; 
*'  I  shall  then  be  more  than  ever  rejoiced  that  we 
conveyed  the  news  of  your  dereliction  in  person, 
because  we  can  both  assist  in  extricating  her 
from  the  companionship  of  the  carp  and  tench." 

"  You  make  yourself  very  merry,  Sutherland, 
with  the  misfortunes  of  your  friends." 

"  Nay,  Medwin,  in  general  you  accuse  me  of 
being  too  wise  rather  than  too  merry ;  but  you 
wiU  allow  that  I  have  cause  at  present  to  be  both 


PLIGHTED    TROTH.  813 

merry  and  wise  ;  after  devoting  the  flower  of  my 
youth  to  the  drudgery  of  a  public  office  on  a 
slender  stipend,  I  have  been,  as  you  are  aware, 
just  rewarded  to  the  very  extent  of  my  hopes  and 
wishes  by  a  situation  of  eight  hundred  a  year." 

Medwin  inclined  his  head  in  token  of  assent 
and  congratulation,  but  inw^ardly  thought  that  it 
was  of  very  little  consequence  whether  so  con- 
firmed an  old  bachelor  as  his  friend  had  eight 
hundred  or  two  hundred  a  year  to  live  upon. 
The  train  stopped.  Mr.  Arnold's  house  appeared 
in  sight,  and  Medwin  led  the  way  to  it  with  a 
pace  more  resembling  that  of  a  boy  "  creeping 
like  a  snail  unwillingly  to  school,"  than  the  fly- 
ing steps  of  an  impatient  lover  anxious  to  prove 
the  inviolability  of  his  plighted  troth. 

Ella  and  Cousin  Kate  sat  together  in  a  pretty, 
tasteful  drawing-room,  opening  on  a  verandah 
gay  with  early  flowers. 

"  How  I  dread  the  arrival  of  poor  Medwin  ! " 
sighed  Ella  :  "  Sir  Walter  Scott  says  — 

•  What  spectre  can  the  charnel  send 
So  dreadful  as  an  injured  friend  ?  ' 

but  an  injured  lover  is  by  many  degrees  worse. 
Do  you  not  think  it  likely  that  Medwin  will 
challenge  my  dear  Arnold  ? " 

"  Not  at   all,"  replied  Cousin  Kate,  calmly ; 
"  and  if  he  did,  I  am  persuaded  that  your  dear 
Arnold  would  refuse  the  invitation." 
27 


314  PLIGHTED    TROTH. 

"  1  trust,  however,"  said  Ella,  with  anxiety, 
"that  you  have  fulfilled  your  promise  to  me,  and 
directed  the  pistols,  and  the  fowling  piece,  and 
the  old  sword  over  the  breakfast-room  mantel- 
shelf, to  be  taken  down  and  locked  up." 

"  All  is  done  to  your  wish,  my  dear,"  replied 
Cousin  Kate  ;  "  nay,  if  you  desire  it,  I  will  even 
lock  up  the  little  case  of  tortoise-shell  pistols 
given  to  me  last  week  by  my  uncle,  from  one  of 
which  proceeds  a  mother-of-pearl  bodkin,  and 
from  the  other  a  wrought  gold  toothpick  :  but 
hark !  a  ring  at  the  garden  gate  ;  your  slighted 
lover  is  advancing  up  the  gravel  walk  ;  and  now 
I  can  oiily  offer  to  yDU,  by  way  of  consolation,  the 
hackneyed  assurance  that  the  sooner  a  disagree- 
able interview  begins,  the  sooner  it  will  be  over." 

In  a  moment  Medwin  and  Sutherland  were 
in  the  room ;  hasty  and  embarrassed  greetings 
were  exchanged,  and  Cousin  Kate,  kindly  de- 
sirous to  shorten  the  troubles  of  Ella,  stepped 
out  into  the  verandah,  summoned  Sutherland  to 
admire  with  her  the  beauty  of  a  plant,  and  led 
him  on  to  a  flight  of  steps,  from  whence  they 
descended  into  the  garden,  and  confided  to  each 
other  the  follies  and  frivolities  of  their  respective 
young  friends.  Meanwhile  the  plighted  lovers 
cast  furtive  glances  at  each  other ;  the  gentle- 
man twirled  his  hat,  and  the  lady  applied  her- 
self to  her  vinaigrette. 


PLIGHTED    TROTH.  315 

"  My  feelings,  Miss  Winfield,"  said  Medwin 
at  length,  "  may  be  better  imagined  than  de- 
scribed." 

"  So  may  mine,  I  am  sure,"  responded  Ella  in 
a  low  tone. 

"Dreadful!"  thought  Medwin,  "she  is  more 
passionately  attached  to  me  than  ever.  Con- 
stancy," he  proceeded,  *'  is  praised  and  respected 
by  all ;  but  how  melancholy  is  the  reverse,  how 
sad  is  the  contemplation  when  the  heart  changes, 
when  perhaps  it  even  transfers  its  affections  from 
one  object  to  another!" 

"  Alas  !  alas  ! "  said  Ella  to  herself,  "  he  has 
heard  of  my  inconstancy,  and  is  taking  this 
method  of  showing  how  he  scorns  and  despises 
me." 

"What  does  a  person  deserve,"  asked  Med- 
win, "  who,  after  professing  undying  attachment 
for  a  first  love,  can  in  the  course  of  a  few  months 
address  the  same  fond  protestations  to  a  second; 
what,  I  say,  does  such  a  person  deserve  ? ' 

"  The  scorn'  and  abhorrence  of  the  world," 
replied  Ella  with  animation,  determined  not  to 
attempt  to  screen  herself,  but  to  plead  guilty  to 
the  most  poignant  accusations  of  her  injured 
lover. 

"  Poor  thing !  "  said  Medwin  aside,  "  she  sus- 
pects that  my  meaning  is  personal ;  she  is  quite 
losing  her  command  of  temper You   are 


316 


PLIGHTED    TROTH. 


right,"  he  replied;  "such  conduct  is  indeed  in- 
defensible ;  'there  is  no  killing  like  that  which 
kills  the  heart ;'  and  oh  !  what  are  the  woes  of 
sickness,  poverty,  or  blighted  fortune,  connpared 
with  the  agony  of  crushed  hopes,  slighted  affec- 
tions, wounded  sensibility,  and  wasted  tender- 
ness ?  —  Where  can  the  deserted  one  repair  for 
consolation  ?  —  the  brilliant  bubbles  that  sparkled 
on  the  waters  of  existence  are  broken  —  the  —  " 

''•  Spare  me,  spare  me  !"  sobbed  Ella,  "  I  can- 
not bear  to  hear  you  ;  it  is  too  much  for  my 
feelings  ;  I  could  fancy  I  was  listening  to  Charles 
Phillips." 

"  She  really  has  excellent  taste  and  discern- 
ment, after  all,"  thought  Medwin;  "I  pity  her 

more  than  ever Believe  me.  Miss  Winfield," 

he  continued,  "  that  I  sincerely  esteem  and  ad- 
mire you,  and  although  unfortunately  I  love 
another  —  " 

"  You  mean  that  unfortunately  /love  another," 
interrupted  Ella  with  spirit. 

"  This  is  not  a  subject  for  jesting,"  said  Med- 
win gravely  ;  "  I  take  shame  to  myself  to  ac- 
knowledge that  I  have  been  for  three  months 
engaged  to  my  sister's  friend.  Miss  Staples,  — 
now,  dear  Miss  Winfield,  do  not  grow  hysteri- 
cal." 

But  Ella's  joyous,  irrepressible  laughter  had 
nothing  hysterical  about  it. 


PLIGHTED    TROTH.  317 

"  You  have  made  me  feel  quite  easy,"  she 
said,  "  respecting  a  confession  that  I  am  about  to 
utter ;  we  have  been  actuated  by  sympathetic 
inclinations,  it  is  certain,  for  just  about  the  time 
you  mention  I  accepted  the  proposals  of  my 
uncle's  son ! " 

"  Can  I  believe  my  senses  ? "  exclaimed  Med- 
win;  "  after  all  your  protestations,  all  your  vows 
that  you  could  never  love  but  me,  have  you  given 
your  heart  to  another  ? " 

"  Those  vows,"  replied  the  young  lady,  "  were 
breathed  with  still  more  warmth  by  yourself,  and 
why  should  you  be  surprised  that  I  have  followed 
your  example  in  breaking  them  ?  Cousin  Kate 
told  me  from  the  first  that  I  never  really  loved 
you." 

"  And  Sutherland,"  retorted  the  young  gen- 
tleman with  some  irritation,  "  assured  me  this 
day  six  months,  that  he  was  certain  I  should 
forget  you  before  the  new  moon  became  an  old 
one." 

Just  then  Cousin  Kate  and  Sutherland,  having 
reascended  the  verandah,  walked  from  it  into 
the  drawing-room,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Arnold 
and  his  son,  who  had  joined  them  in  the  garden. 
Medwin  exchanged  a  cordial  greeting  with  his 
rival,  and  Edward  Arnold  inquired  after  the 
health  of  Miss  Staples  in  a  tone  of  interest  which 
21^ 


318  PLIGHTED    TROTH. 

showed  that  Sutherland  had  made  him  aware  of 
the  true  position  of  affairs. 

"  All  has  turned  out  well,"  said  Ella's  uncle, 
"  and  I  think  the  marriages  had  better  take  place 
as  soon  as  possible  ;  it  is  not  fair  to  expose  con- 
stancy to  too  severe  a  trial ;  I  shall  never  place 
much  trust  in  the  plighted  troth  of  young  people." 

"  Nay,"  said  Sutherland,  advancing  to  him, 
and  taking  the  unreluctant  hand  of  Cousin  Kate 
in  his  own,  "  permit  me  from  experience  to  say 
a  few  words  in  defence  of  true  lovers'  vows. 
Ten  years  ago,  Mr.  Arnold,  I  first  saw  and  loved 
your  amiable  and  excellent  niece  :  I  told  my  love 
to  her,  and  obtained  from  her  an  assurance  that 
she  returned  it ;  she  was  then  emancipated  from 
all  control ;  I  also  was  an  orphan,  and  had  none 
to  oppose  my  wishes;  but  we  loved  wisely  at  the 
same  time  that  we  loved  well ;  we  decided  that 
our  united  incomes  were  inadequate  to  supply  us 
with  the  comforts  and  conveniences  of  life  ;  I  had, 
however,  favorable  prospects  of  affluence ;  we 
plighted  our  troth,  but  we  resolved  not  to  expose 
ourselves  to  the  prying  scrutiny  and  obtrusive 
comments  of  our  acquaintance  by  publicly  ap- 
pearing as  a  contracted  couple ;  we  each  met  with 
several  opportunities  of  forming  what  the  world 
calls  a  desirable  connection,  and  we  each  declined 
such  opportunities  for  the  sake  of  the  other ;  our 
letters  and  interviev^rs  were  not  frequent,  but  we 


PLIGHTED    TROTH.  319 

lived  in  hope ;  and  absence,  although  it  restrained 
the  fervor  of  our  love,  did  not  diminish  its  ten- 
derness. I  had  anticipated  that  in  five  years  I 
should  have  attained  the  situation  that  I  now 
hold  ;  I  have  waited  double  that  time  ;  but  for  a 
bride  like  Kate,  I  would  have  willingly  waited 
had  the  years  been  passed  in  pain  and  bondage. 
You  have  been  contemplating  two  marriages,  I 
trust  you  will  not  object  to  sanction  a  third,  and 
that  you  will  allow  that  we  have  carried  on  our 
courtship  with  as  Httle  trouble  to  our  friends  as 
any  pair  of  lovers  whom  the  county  can  pro- 
duce." 

"  And  have  I  accused  you  of  being  a  confirmed 
old  bachelor,"  said  Medwin  to  Sutherland,  "  when 
you  have  been  longing  all  the  time  to  get  mar- 
ried ?  " 

"  And  have  I  told  you  that  you  never  had  a 
heart,"  said  Ella  to  Cousin  Kate,  "when  you 
had  a  much  truer  one  than  my  own  ?  " 

"  I  too  have  many  apologies  to  make,"  said 
the  host ;  "  I  have  frequently  been  in  the  habit 
of  saying  that  constancy  was  like  a  ghost,  — 
often  talked  of,  but  never  seen ;  and  I  have  not 
once  had  the  courtesy  to  exempt  the  present 
company  from  my  strictures.  Henceforth,  how- 
ever, I  shall  compare  it  to  an  aloe  which  blooms 
once  in  a  hundred  years,  and  take  great  pride 
in  boasting  that  my  humble  abode  has  been  the 


220  PLIGHTED    TROTH. 

theatre  of  its  development,  and  that  I  have  this 
day  witnessed  the  spectacle  of  a  couple,  who, 
having  been  contracted  ten  years,  are  at  length 
happily  enabled  to  marry  without  having  in  the 
time  of  probation  broken  or  wished  to  break  their 
^Plighted  Troth!'" 


321 


YOUNG  THOUGHTS  MAKE  YOUNG  HEARTS. 

BY     CALDER     CAMPBELL. 

Think  not  of  the  winter's  cold 

When  the  summer's  breath  is  round  thee ; 
Think  not  of  the  worth  of  gold 

Ere  its  sordid  wants  have  found  thee. 
Think  not  of  the  cautious  art 
Which  guards  yet  petrifies  the  heart ; 
Nor,  in  thy  youth,  with  darings  bold, 
Mix  age's  leaven,  hard  and  cold;  — 
Old  thoughts  make  young  hearts  old! 

Take  thy  pleasure  with  free  hands, — 
Nor  content  thyself  with  viewing 

Flowers  and  fruits,  whose  relish  stands 
As  much  in  plucking  as  pursuing ; 

Deem  not  sunshine  made,  that  thou 

Should'st  bar  its  brightness  from  thy  brow; 

Heaven  hath  lent  us  sweetness  —  light — 

All  that 's  good,  and  fair,  and  bright, 

As  much  for  taste  as  sight! 

Sorrow  cometh  soon  enoug-h  — 

Wisely  should  we  seize  each  blessing 

That  comes  to  smooth  life's  journey  rough, 
With  a  joy  in  the  possessing  :  — 


322  YOUNG  THOUGHTS  MAKE  YOUNG  HEARTS. 

Let  our  thouo-hts  then  turn  as  loner 
As  e'er  they  can,  to  dance  and  song;  — 
To  every  feeling  that  imparts 
Gleeful  smiles  by  natural  arts  — 
Young  thoughts  make  young  old  hearts! 


14  DAY  USE 

RETUKN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 
Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  priod  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


JUN  27197?  2  6 


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